


The Cannibal's Child

by DullYellowEye



Category: Hannibal (2001), Hannibal Rising (2007), Red Dragon (2002), Silence of the Lambs (1991)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, Kid Fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-01-04
Updated: 2012-04-28
Packaged: 2017-10-28 22:22:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 6
Words: 31,785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/312791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DullYellowEye/pseuds/DullYellowEye
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five years before his incarceration Dr Lecter has a love affair that will change his life. Nine months later a baby girl is left in his sole custody. She will be known to the world as Mariette Babineaux but in her heart she always has, and always will be, Mariette Lecter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Early Years

Dr Hannibal Lecter, for all his dinner parties and Opera outings, was a very private man. He kept himself to himself, only offering up opinions when he was asked. He had very few actual friends, only a very large number of acquaintances. Mme Émile Babineaux was one such acquaintance although, if she had stayed in America, perhaps she might have become more. As she was a visiting French Diplomat their relationship had only lasted a couple of months before they parted ways. Neither of them regretted what had happened, but neither regretted it was over, either.

As such, Dr Lecter had never expected what had followed. For, just over eight months after her departure from America and from him, Mme Émile Babineaux returned. She stayed long enough to give him the precious bundle she carried and to sign over custody before she left once more, promising herself never to return.

Which was how Dr Lecter found himself staring down into the bassinet that seemed so strange and out of proportion in his room, into the eyes of his daughter. There was no question that she was his. The bright blue eyes she had been born with had rapidly darkened to the same, eerie maroon of Dr Lecter's own and there were a number of other unformed features that he knew would grow to resemble him.

Her name was Mariette Louise. She did not even have a surname yet, the poor child. Mme Babineaux had not deigned to give her surname and Dr Lecter was still wary of passing on his own. For what connotations might this child have to live with as the bastard child of a French Diplomat and a Psychological profiler? No, he wished that he might give her her own surname, but knew not how. He knew not what.

The child was staring back, as unblinkingly as he, with the same bright eyes. She had not learnt to smile yet, or he could have sworn that she was smirking at him. In some aspects she was an unwelcome intruder upon his private life. In others - she was his. Utterly and totally his. For the first time he could lay claim to another human being, knowing that they ought to love him. Mariette was still too young to love him, but he knew she would, one day. He would make sure of it.

And with that resolution in mind, he gave her his name and welcomed the child into his home. It was awkward at times, and his usual patterns of behaviour were disrupted, but he soon learnt to respect that and be grateful for it, just as she soon learnt that it was to him that she owed her loyalty and love, though she did not understand.

The months passed life browned leaves falling from the tall oak and whisked by the breeze gradually down to rest with calm temporariness before fading down into the earth as only a memory. The months stretched into years and Dr Lecter watched with a new sense of admiration for the nature of human life. Mariette grew and matured, she learnt to walk and talk with an elegance that left her peers behind. She came to recognise the love of her father, and her father's love of her. She grew to appreciate the solemn beauty in the arts that Dr Lecter so loved.

It was on her fourth birthday that Dr Lecter instructed her to change into her new gown and to hurry down stairs. He carefully secured her coat around her, then took her by the hand and led her outside to the car.

"Where are we going Papa?" she asked in her clear voice that rang like bells and seemed to carry a melody of its own.

"I have a surprise for you, _ma belle_ ," he answered, not revealing a thing and delighting in her excited anticipation.

He took her to see Baltimore's Symphony Orchestra in full regalia. He was friendly with a number of the patrons to the Orchestra and he introduced them all to his daughter. Mariette curtsied and smiled and charmed them all, all of them remarking upon what a wonderful daughter he had. Dr Lecter accepted the praises as what they were and allowed a little of his pride show through. For Mariette was something o be proud of, for sure.

She sat in the seat next to him, an extra cushion on the chair to elevate her a couple of inches more, so that she might see better. Her eyes watched with wide appreciation, mouth slightly parted and spots of colour high in her young cheeks. She blinked only once through the performance, when a note was chimed wrong during a part of Mahler's ninth Symphony that Dr Lecter knew she favoured. Other than that, she sat very still, listening and watching with rapt attention.

Afterwards Dr Lecter led her back to his acquaintances, who cooed delightedly over her knowledge of the music, and expressed their admiration for the piece.

"The second cellist was very good," Mariette said with a smile, when it seemed conversation might wither away and leave them awkward. And conversation flowed on again, neither of the Lecter's saying much more than a few words here or there.

When the musicians appeared and came out to talk to the number who remained, Mariette watched them with transformed awe as they went from the Gods which they were on stage, to the mere humans that they became in a crowd without their instruments. Her father recognised the look and smiled to himself. Mariette was beginning to understand already that what one appeared to be on the outside was not necessarily who they really were.

After a number of introductions to the players, the group retired from the theatre and began making its way back to the Lecters' house. Mariette tugged on her father's sleeve and he knelt to pick her up for the short walk home. One of her hands clutched his jacket lapel and her head rested heavily on his shoulder, golden curls falling about her face. She was tired from a long evening and the momentary indecision as to whether she would eat with them was resolved. She would not.

She ate in the kitchen whilst her father finished preparing the food for their guests and wished them all good night when she was done. Between the memorable starter and the next course, Dr Lecter bid his guests excuse him for a moment whilst he went upstairs to tuck her in.

She was ready for bed when he entered, golden hair spread like a fan about her head and across the pillow and eyes half-shut.

"You left the guests, Papa?" she asked, voice light and slightly teasing.

Dr Lecter smiled and sat on the edge of her bed, stroking a lock of hair from her forehead. "They will not mind. They adore you already."

Mariette smiled, her eyes fully closing and leaning in to the warmth of her father's hand.

"Good night, _ma belle_ ," he wished her.

"Good night Papa. Thank you very much for my surprise," she said without opening her eyes, though her smile grew a little wider.

He leant over her and kissed her forehead. "All my love," he said.

"I love you too," she murmured as he left, the smile slipping off her face as her muscles relaxed into sleep.

Dr Lecter shut the door behind him and stood a moment, utterly still. She was utterly his, that little, perfect human behind those doors. But he had come to realise over the past four years that he also belonged utterly to her. It was a scary feeling, but it gave him more satisfaction than he ever believed it might. He did not linger long, moving swiftly back down the stairs to tend to his guests. The conversation was as lively and involving as it had been before, but he noticed with gratitude that their voices were a little quieter than before, their laughs a little more refined.

He thanked them for it as they left, but they brushed his gratitude aside, replacing it with their own for such a wonderful meal. Once the last guest left and he started to clear the remaining dishes from the table, he considered that, all in all, it had been a successful evening. The Orchestra was no longer hindered by its awful flute player, Mariette was happy and content, and his guests well-fed and pleased.

Dr Lecter had retired to his study with a glass of scotch when the doorbell went. He moved quickly to see his visitor, lest they ring the bell again and disturb Mariette. When he opened the door it was the young Special Agent Will Graham who stood there, his face stretched tight with worry and his appearance making him look tired and frantic.

He showed the younger man in, through to the study and listened intently as Graham detailed his revelation. He did not want to kill the other man, but when that light of understanding came to his eyes, he knew he must. The bullets surprised him. He had forgotten the gun. Unlike him to do so. He was not prone to making mistakes. But as they both collapsed back down, the one thought that remained in Dr Lecter's head was that he hoped his thundering heart beat would not wake Mariette.

As it happened, it was the gunshots that woke the four year old, not his heart beat. Mariette had not heard proper gunshots before and so when she woke she was not afraid, only curious. Her father had always taken great pains not to wake her once she went to sleep each night and that he might be so careless surprised her, especially after all the thought he had put into that day.

When Mariette found Special Agent Will Graham sprawled across the floor, blood pooling around him from the wound in his side, and her father splayed backward across the desk, three gunshot wounds in his chest, Mariette did not scream. She stepped delicately over Graham, careful not to spoil her slippers in the blood and moved towards the desk. She moved her father's hand aside, so that she could reach the telephone and quickly dialled the hospital.

When the medics arrived both men were still alive. They found Mariette curled up on her father's work chair, looking into his face and gently stroking his cheek bones and along his brow, kissing him occasionally and whispering words of encouragement. Later, the doctors considered this as maybe the only reason that Dr Lecter managed to live through it - for the love of his child.

The year that followed was a long, hard one for all those involved. For both Graham and Dr Lecter is was long, painful road to recovery that the press followed with avid interest. The trial and conviction that followed was equally as difficult. But, perhaps the worst affected was little Mariette. Seeing her father so helpless completed the thoughts that had seeded in her head the night of her fourth birthday. Dr Lecter had appeared God-like to her in life, but here, on the brink of death, it was painfully clear that he was, indeed, only human.

Mariette stayed in America long enough to see the beginning of the trial, but her mother came, reluctantly, to take her away before it progressed very far. Mariette was glad, at least, to see her father awake again. The policemen had been reluctant to let her see him and speak to him, but she charmed and pleaded with them, until they let her.

The bars separating them did little to restrain as they embraced one another fiercely. He wiped the tears from her eyes and smiled a little.

"Madame Babineaux has come to take me away," Mariette told him on a whisper, scared if she said the words too loud her mother might swoop in that moment and bear her off.

Dr Lecter ran a finger down her cheek. "She is your mother,' he replied.

"But you are my Papa," she replied, with a childish simplicity.

"Ah, _ma belle_ , but I eat people." They had all tried to keep the truth of her father from her, but it was impossible to escape the facts of the trial of the century.

"You don't eat me," Mariette said, again her childish grasp of logic making fools of the 'proper' thing to do. For what could be simpler than a child staying with the parent she knows and loves and who loves her, rather than the parents who does not?

"You can not stay in a cell with me, Mariette," he scolded her lightly. "It would not do."

Mariette watched him intently for a moment, cocking her head to the side. Then, with simple determination, said, "I will not stay with her long."

Dr Lecter smiled and might have laughed, if they had been in private. "Of course you won't."

The door swung open and one of Dr Lecter's guards stepped in. "Time's up," he said gruffly.

Father and daughter moved to the bars again and he held her tightly, placing a tender kiss on her forehead. "I am glad you will not see the trial, _ma belle_ ," Dr Lecter smiled and placed a curled finger under her chin, tilting her face up. "All my love," he told her.

"I love you too," she answered, and kissed his cheek.

She left with the guard, his hand not quite touching her as he led her out. Bright eyes so like his own glanced back one last time and Dr Lecter winked. The mischievous light that had been missing from her eyes those past months was ignited once more and she left the room feeling lighter-hearted than she had in a while.

Mariette ended up living with her mother for just over a year. In that time, Mme Émile Babineaux awakened a new realisation in her five year old daughter. Up until this point, Mariette had been able to charm her way into and out of everything. Blonde hair, pretty features and an angelic countenance meant only those closest to her could look beyond to the wild mischievous nature that waited hidden beneath the mask. Her father could look beyond, should he chose to, but often did not. She and he and a unique rapport that knew the bounds to push and not to, the masks to wear and not to. She could not pull one by him, just as he could not her.

Her mother, however, was a different breed entirely. She had the same angelic charms as her daughter and had been using them, refining them, practising them for just as long as she had been alive. But it was not simply a case of her not falling for the sweet smiles and innocent gazes, no, Mme Babineaux saw the devil behind it all, when there was only a five year old child.

Mariette's name was changed to Babineaux when she arrived in France, and it was something that both Mariette and Mme Babineaux resented. Mariette was given no time to adjust and was thrown with little planning and no thought to her well-being into the local school. Dr Lecter had been careful in teaching her a number of languages as she grew up, so understanding the language was of little difficulty, but Mariette had been used to a relatively lonely life without seeing more than two or three people, besides her father, everyday. The thirty children per class and endless bustle of school life scared and disorientated Mariette.

Likewise, she could not escape when she was 'home' for Mme Babineaux was a socialite. There were endless parties and functions and dinners that sent Mariette's mind into a whirl. Endless pretty dresses to try on and wear as her mother paraded her before Paris' rich and renowned. On the rare occasions Mariette did get to herself, she was to learn to play the piano, or to draw, or to sew, never to be left to her books.

Two months before her sixth birthday, Two strangers appeared on her mother's doorstep, asking after her. Seeing no reason as to why not, Mme Babineaux introduced them as Lady Murasaki and her husband, Pascal Popil. Mariette watched them with her bright eyes, curious as to what they could possibly want with her, but not enough to say anything aloud to them.

"Mariette?" the Lady Murasaki asked. She was a very beautiful Japanese lady in her early sixties, late fifties perhaps.

"Yes," Mariette answered, voice still clear like a bell.

There was a pause as the atmosphere of the room shifted slightly, Popil crossing and uncrossing his legs, perhaps out of nervousness as the two women were perfectly still.

"I was married to the brother of your grandfather. I am your father's aunt."

Mariette nodded, tilting her head slightly to one side as she often did when seriously considering something. "Yes, I believe Papa spoke of you a few times. But he often prefers to live in the present, rather than the past."

"Your father's trial finished five months ago, the sentence passed last month," she said.

"Yes," Mariette agreed. It was hard to avoid that fact, and all the disgusting rumours surrounding her father's case, when one was constantly surrounded by gossip-mongers.

Lady Murasaki smiled, just a little, and a flash of the past appeared in her eyes before it disappeared. "Pascal and I are travelling to America to visit him. We were wondering if you wanted to come?"

Mariette stared a moment, unmoving as her heart began to beat ferociously in her chest. Such an offer! A return to America, to the life she knew, to see her father again - wait. "Would I be able to see Papa?" she asked quietly, fearful of a negative response.

Popil spoke for the first time. "Why do you want to?" The question was not accusatory, merely curious, as though the once- _inspecteur_ really did not understand why she might want to see him.

"Why do you?" Mariette asked back, eyes still on Lady Murasaki.

"I was an _inspecteur_ on his case when he lived in Paris. I respected him - still do. I want to see where the long years have taken him."

"How old was he then?" Mariette asked, eyes curious, face impassive.

"Thirteen when I first met him. Nineteen when I last," Popil answered easily enough.

"Do you think after nearly thirty years he will still recognise you?"

"Yes."

"Do you think after a year and a half he will recognise me?" There was tremor in her voice as she said it, much as she tried to keep it out. As she grew and changed she had become fearful that her own father might not recognise her.

Popil moved to kneel before her chair and placed a heavy hand on each of her shoulders. "Yes," he said, certain. He squeezed lightly before letting go and returning to his seat.

"You want to see him because you love him," Lady Murasaki said, then.

"Yes."

"Then we shall not stop you from seeing him. The authorities might not let you, but we will," Lady Murasaki said, smiling now.

Mariette looked up to her and a flickering smile appeared briefly on her lips in response. "Will you help me?" she asked. "I wish to see Papa again."

Lady Murasaki leant forward and cupped Mariette's cheek in one hand. "Yes," she said.

It did not take long to convince her mother to let her go. Mme Babineaux had never wanted children and getting rid of something she did not want was no sacrifice. So within a fortnight Mariette was ready to leave, her many pretty dresses packed carefully into her suitcases, her books hidden between the skirts so her mother might not find them and stop them from going with her.

Lady Murasaki and Pascal Popil arrived late the evening before they were to leave and were at the Babineaux household ready to go early the next morning. It took little time and effort to transport Mariette's baggage into the car, and then they were off. It was a long, uncomfortable journey, but Mariette found she could not regret that time for during it she got to know her great-aunt and her husband.

Popil was wary of telling the story of Dr Lecter's youth, but Lady Murasaki told it anyway. She told the rapt five year old of Mischa and the cannibals in the forest. Of the butcher and his rudeness, of Hannibal's intelligence and vengeance. She told Mariette that Hannibal had told her, shortly before she left, that she was his favourite person in the world.

"I don't think that would be true any more, though," Lady Murasaki said with a hint of a smile.

"I know he's still very fond of you," Mariette insisted, feeling the need to comfort her new-found relative.

Lady Murasaki's eyes clouded with the past again for a moment, but soon cleared. "Perhaps," she acquiesced. "But I believe, from what you have told me, that _you_ are his favourite person."

Mariette's face lit for a moment in selfish pleasure. To be loved was one thing - and she was sure her father loved her - but to be a favourite was another thing entirely. Mariette remembered quite clearly the evening of her fourth birthday; the Symphony Orchestra, the faces of Dr Lecter's friends, the beautiful music, spoiled by only one missed note, the sound of her father's heart beat beneath her ear as he carried her home. She recalled eating in the kitchen, the voices of their guests filtering through the open door to the hallway, to the Drawing Room, she remembered preparing for bed, her father saying good night, calling her _ma belle_ , like he always did. _"All my love,"_ he'd say. _"I love you too,"_ she'd answer. She did not care to remember the rest.

But the rest was not important. The rest was what led to the terrible divide between them. No, it was those moments of closeness, of uniqueness to only them, that reminded Mariette why she could forgive her father. For she had not gone this long hearing of his crimes without hating him a little. She could not explain away the deaths he'd caused, could not understand his reasoning. The cannibalism did not bother her so much - her father was not a man to waste resources and, if he had killed them, why not utilise whatever few uses they had left? Mariette just did not understand why he killed in the first place.

But she loved her father without bounds, trusted him implicitly. She would not let this get between them. No matter his crimes, he was her father. One day she hoped he would provide some explanation, until then she could only resent that his choices had separated them so utterly until this point. For she missed him with all her being.

Their arrival in America was quiet and swift. They stayed in a hotel in the centre of Baltimore, waiting a day to get accustomed to the change in daylight hours, before the three of them travelled to Baltimore Forensic Hospital to request entrance.

Lady Murasaki had already applied and her request been granted, as aunt to Dr Lecter. Dr Chilton, the head doctor at the facility thought it might be insightful to allow her down, to see Dr Lecter's responses. It was in such a vein that they believed it would take little effort for them to convince him to let Mariette see her father again.

Mariette stayed at the hotel the first time Lady Murasaki and Popil went to see Dr Lecter. They came back much quieter, introspective, than when they had left. Lady Murasaki's eyes were red from the effort not to cry and Popil's hands shook ever so slightly.

"What happened?" Mariette enquired.

"He is… so like how I remember him," Lady Murasaki tried to explain, "and yet, so different. Still, he shows no remorse, and I wonder if more happened out in those woods than he ever told anyone. To be so lost…" she could not talk any longer.

Popil said nothing more than, "He still scares me."

The next day, Popil took Mariette to the research facility and they left Lady Murasaki at the hotel. She was more bothered by the visit and the memories of the past than she had cared to show at first. Dr Chilton was delighted in a hungry sort of way when Mariette was introduced to him. He did not hesitate to allow her down to see her father, though he seemed very disappointed when she chose not to allow him to place a microphone on her.

"I have not seen Papa for two years, except a brief visit over a year ago," Mariette said quietly, her eyes watering. "Please let me have a little privacy?"

Dr Chilton saw only blonde hair, a pretty face and child like pleas for something one should not have to ask for. He fell for her act; hook, line and sinker. He did not notice Popil's smirk, nor the rolled eyes of the guards as he hurriedly agreed. He did not even watch the visit on the security cameras until long after she's left.

Mariette waited with impatient excitement as the doors were unlocked and locked around her, until finally she stood at the end of the corridor that led down to the cell containing her father. There was a chair waiting for her and she wondered absently if she might use it. With great difficulty she slowed her heart beat and kept her steps calm and unhurried. She wanted to draw out the sense of sweet anticipation that thrilled through her.

And then, there he was. He looked exactly like he had when she had last seen him, handsome, proud, but tired. He was dressed in a grey jumpsuit that she knew he must loathe. His hair was combed back neatly, but there appeared to be less of it than before and he was not allowed gel to keep it back from his face. Still, he was magnificent.

"Papa," she whispered, desperate for his eyes to look into hers, to recognise her and to love her.

He did not look up. "Mariette, Mariette, Mariette," he spoke her name like a mantra. "They said you were coming, but I did not believe them." Then he glanced up and met her gaze. His eyes were filled with a desperation akin to her own. "But they told the truth. Mariette, Mariette, Mariette," he paused. " _Ma belle_ ," he breathed out.

And Mariette had to restrain from laughing. He was there! "Papa," she whispered again and moved forward to press her hands to the glass. She slipped her fingers through the holes and he grasped at them, stroking them, wished he could hold her. "How I've missed you."

"You've grown," he said inconsequentially. "Your clothes are more presumptuous."

This time Mariette did laugh. "Yes, yes, I know! Mother did not like me much, but she liked to dress me up and show me off. I like French style, but not so much of it on so little occasion."

"Am I nothing to dress up for then, Mariette?" he teased, eyes glowing red in the darkened hall.

"No, no. I put on something pretty for you today," Mariette told him seriously. "I knew you wouldn't be able to dress up, so I did a bit for the both of us." She stepped back and did a twirl, skirt floating out around her as she did so.

"Ah, now I can see the French in you that you've picked up during my absence."

Mariette looked at him sadly, pushing her fingers through the holes again, needing to touch, to feel that he was real. "I tried to stay the same, but I did not know how," she told him.

"I see you as you were in my dreams, _ma belle_ , the differences tell me that you are real. I like these changes. You are growing up and making me proud." Dr Lecter told her quite seriously and it made her smile.

"I always want to make you proud," she responded. "But with mother it was sometimes so difficult. I do not know why you liked her."

Dr Lecter smiled back at her when she said that. "Ah, but I knew her for but three months and she had a pretty face. You've known her for thirteen months and know that her personality is ugly."

"She's not ugly," Mariette contradicted. "She is just selfish."

"Selfishness is a form of ugliness," her father told her.

"Then I am ugly too," Mariette informed him. "Because, for all the ills you spill upon the world, I want you free so that you can tuck me into bed again at night."

Dr Lecter smiled again and crouched down to her height, pressing his forehead to the glass. She pressed hers against her side, too. "All my love, _ma belle_ ," he promised her.

Mariette kissed the glass. "I love you too."

"Will you come back again?" he asked, knowing that their time together was drawing to a close.

"I will try. It depends upon the charity of Lady Murasaki and Mr Popil. I can only stay in America as long as they do. I don't know if they'll want me to keep seeing you."

"They let you come down now, didn't they?"

"I told them I loved you."

"Tell them again," Dr Lecter almost asked her. "Keep telling them until they hear you. I love you, I do not want you to go."

Mariette laughed lightly. "Dr Chilton wants me to keep coming. He thinks I will help give him some insight into your mind."

"Only you could see into my mind."

"If I tell him that he might not let me down again."

There was a moment of silence between them as they only drank in the sight of the other with their eyes. At the end of the corridor keys rattled and a voice called, "Miss Babineaux! Miss Babineaux, you must come back now."

"Your name?" he asked, wanting to keep her there a moment longer.

"Mother changed it," Mariette said. "I'll change it back as soon as I can. I think I must go."

"Come back, _ma belle_ , come back," he asked.

"I will," Mariette promised. "I love you."


	2. The Red Dragon

It took Mariette three days before she drew enough courage to ask to visit her father again. No one saw any reason why she should not, and said so. So, she asked further.

"Lady Murasaki, how long do you intend to stay in America?"

"For as long as you need us to be," the Japanese lady responded, not looking up from the flowers she was arranging.

Mariette bit her lip and said, "I don't think I shall ever want to leave. I love Papa, I want to see him everyday."

"You will never be able to see him everyday, Marie," Lady Murasaki said gently, looking up now, with pity in her eyes. "But we shall stay until you might stay on your own. Perhaps we can write to your mother, ask her to move to America for you?"

"She would not move," Mariette told her bitterly. "She does not like me."

Lady Murasaki hugged Mariette and kissed her on the top of her head. "Then Pascal and I will stay and we shall look after you for as long as you need or want us to."

Mariette hugged her back and nodded tightly.

The next day, she returned to the Forensic Hospital to see her father again. This time Dr Chilton insisted on a body microphone before she went down. Mariette did not question this, only watching his movement as he attached the mike with wide eyes. As she waited for the doors to unlock and allow her entrance, one of the guards wished her luck. She smiled at him and told him she didn't need luck.

Dr Lecter was waiting, this time, sitting cross legged facing the glass, his knees just touching it. He looked up at her and smiled as she came into his line of vision.

" _Bonjour_ , _ma belle_ ," he greeted her.

" _Salut_ , Papa," she responded more casually. "I have good news for you."

"And what is that?" he asked, his eyes watching her movements greedily as she folded down upon the ground to sit as close to him as she could with the glass still between them. "Lady Murasaki and Mr Popil say that they will stay in Baltimore for me, should I wish it. We sent a letter to mother yesterday, asking if I am allowed to stay."

"What do you think she will say?" Dr Lecter enquired, reaching towards the glass so they could brush fingertips.

Mariette smiled a little pompously and tilted her head back in false pride. "I do not care," she claimed. "She will not stop me." But there was fear behind her eyes, fear of never seeing her father again.

Dr Lecter said nothing, leaning forward as they had before, so that their foreheads were leaning together against the same space of glass. It was a tender moment, one that was to give comfort as well as to marvel in the other's presence.

"You are wearing a microphone this time," Dr Lecter said.

"Yes, Papa. Dr Chilton insisted."

"I do not care much for Dr Chilton. He fumbles at my head like a child disrupting their toy box," Dr Lecter spoke quite clearly, the comment clearly aimed more for Dr Chilton than his daughter.

"I am a child," Mariette reminded.

Dr Lecter smiled at her indulgently. "Yes, Mariette, you are. But you will grow and learn and become _more_. Dr Chilton, I am sorry to say, will not."

There was another moment of silence, as they both imagined the Doctor's face turning purple in his enclosed, cluttered little study several floors above them. It made them both smile.

"It is your sixth birthday in just over a month, is it not?" Dr Lecter asked shortly.

"You know it is," Mariette said, scolding slightly.

He smiled apologetically. "I'm afraid I can not take you to see the Symphony Orchestra this year, _ma belle_ , nor buy you any of the pretty dresses you say you do not like, though we both know you do."

" _C'est ça va_ ," Mariette assured him. "Seeing you again, speaking to you again, is enough. I hope that by my birthday I will know that I can stay and visit you often. That would be more than enough birthday present for me."

Dr Lecter stroked the glass, following the line of her cheek. "And you call yourself selfish," he murmured quietly, chuckling a little. "You are beautiful, _ma belle_ , inside and out."

"I am very selfish," Mariette declared with a smile and swung to her feet, to dance for him. "I want riches and jewels, dresses and stars. I want the moon on a platter, so I may watch it for my enjoyment and mine alone," she sang softly, making up the words and tune as she went along, swinging her hips and doing elegant little pirouettes.

"You dance and sing better than before," Dr Lecter commented, smiling at his beautiful daughter's little show.

" _Mais évidemment_ ," Mariette responded, laughing lightly, placing her hands upon invisible shoulders and waste of her non-existent dance partner and moving in swift circles back and forth. "Part of my mother's learning. Hah! Learning, what learning? She insist I dance and sing and draw and sew, but would not let me read my books!"

"And still you are more intelligent than any other your age," Dr Lecter finished rant for her and gestured at the spot on the floor she had vacated. "Come, sit down again, before the guards think I have hypnotised you to dance and sing for me."

Mariette came and once again folded herself elegantly down upon the floor, her heart beat a little faster and spots of colour high on her cheeks. Her eyes were bright and her mouth a little open as she regained her breath. The look of wonder on her face reminded him exactly of how she had watched the musicians up on stage that night almost two years ago and Dr Lecter felt some warm emotion fill his chest and pound upon his heart. For it was _he_ that she looked at with such admiration.

They sat, maybe twenty minutes more, conversing in rapid French, partly to irritate Dr Chilton, partly because French had already been creeping into their conversation and they let it take over. They talked of her life since she had lived with him and she talked excitedly and rapidly of her French friends, of her new found relatives, of the boring parties her mother dragged her to. They did not talk of how Dr Lecter had been.

When the now-familiar guard called her name, Mariette placed her lips to one of the holes in the glass and kissed her father's fingers, before he did the same with hers.

"All my love," he promised her, again.

"I love you too," she replied, smiling. This time their parting was happier, as they were both more confident that they'd see the other soon.

As she stepped back through the cast iron barred doors, the guard addressed her with wonder. "When you first talked, I thought it was all an act," he said. "He's capable of emotion, but none f us thought he was capable of love." He paused and considered Mariette. "But he loves you. Without a doubt. I haven't ever seen him as happy as he is now."

"I know he loves me," Mariette told the guard. "There was a while, when he was first taken from me, that I wondered…" she trailed off and looked back down the corridor. She knew her father could still hear her. "But then I remembered all he'd done for me, all he still does, in his way, and I know he loves me." Mariette looked up at the guard and smiled serenely. "If he didn't love me, he would bite off my fingers when I put them through the glass, rather than kiss them."

Mariette left then, the guard watching her go with just a tad of awe now apparent on his face, and her path followed by Dr Lecter's dark chuckle at her words.

Mme Émile Babineaux did not care enough for her daughter to care too much what happened to her, or where she lived. Thusly, she granted Lady Murasaki and her husband custody of Mariette with very few questions or comments, other than stating her disbelief that they might want to take on a stranger's child. Lady Murasaki did not bother correcting Mme Babineaux.

And so, over the months and years that followed, Lady Murasaki became _Tante_ Murasaki and Mr Popil became _Oncle_ Pascal. Mariette was happy with this transformation, as the new titles were ones that suited their roles in her life. They did not try and intrude too much, try and become her parents. She spoke often to her father about them, and he, too, seemed content with them as her guardians.

Lady Murasaki and Popil did not often visit Dr Lecter, and when they did, they went down with Mariette. The girl found it interesting to watch the interactions between her relatives. Popil and Dr Lecter were like stags in rutting season, always charging and clashing antlers in verbal spars that made Mariette laugh inside her head. Conversely, Lady Murasaki and her father tiptoed around one another, never really saying anything, although they spoke for long periods of time.

Mariette soon came to understand that Dr Lecter had once been in love with his aunt, that he saw Popil as an intruder in that, even though when Popil and lady Murasaki did get together it was a number of years after Dr Lecter had stopped loving her. When the adults realised she understood Popil's and Lady Murasaki's visits stopped completely. None of the parties involved expressed and regret over this matter. Mariette found this humorous also.

"You are like children," she told her father one time. "Full of noise and bluster so you don't have to say how you really feel."

"I don't feel anything for either of them any more," Dr Lecter said.

Mariette smiled the same indulgent smile that he often gave her. "You're a liar, Papa," she told him.

Popil bought for the three of them a large, well decorated apartment near the centre of Baltimore and only one bus journey from the Forensic Hospital that housed Dr Lecter. It suited all their needs. Mariette could make her way to school and to the research facility with next to no difficulty, Lady Murasaki enjoyed living in the city and Popil liked the neighbours. There were two bedrooms, one which Popil and Lady Murasaki shared and one for Mariette. There were ensuite bathrooms to both and a larger bathroom that visitors could use. The rest of the apartment was open-floor. Lady Murasaki put up cloth screens to separate the kitchen area from the rest of the room.

Mariette found herself content with life. She quickly made new friends at her new school and she enjoyed the calming effect the subtle Japanese decorations at her home had.

" _Tante_ Murasaki is teaching me Japanese," Mariette informed her father shortly after her sixth birthday.

He had lied when he said he could not give her anything for her birthday. He'd drawn a magnificent sketch of a horse galloping through the sky with a blonde woman riding it bareback. The hooves of the horse were absent and it's legs had started to disappear. When Mariette asked him why, he told a story of horses that wanted to become the wind and one did, because he had eaten the woman's golden hair. Mariette enjoyed the story and had requested Popil to get the picture framed. He had agreed and it now took pride of place on her bedroom wall.

"She said she tried once to teach you, but you never got far beyond 'hello'," Mariette teased her father.

"She does not lie," Dr Lecter said. "I grasp the Western languages well, but I fear the Eastern ones are beyond me."

"I think it is more because you prefer Western History," Mariette replied. "Japan is a more delicate culture than our own, and you're not a delicate person, so you don't like it as well. And if you do not like it, you have no desire to learn it and so you won't."

Dr Lecter chuckled. "You were quite reluctant to learn to walk," he told her. "And look at you now, dancing your pretty little dances for me down in a dank old dungeon."

Mariette laughed and stood to pirouette and curtsey to him. "I like the alliteration, Papa, but it is hardly 'dank' down here."

"You do not question its being a dungeon, though?"

"Prison, dungeon, it's all just different names for the same thing."

Their conversations were often pointless, with strange destinations varying from the meaning of life to what they each ate for breakfast. It mattered to neither of them what they said, so long as they could talk to one another.

For Mariette's second birthday, Dr Lecter's lawyers managed to secure him a new privilege which overjoyed both he and his daughter, although not for any of the reasons the lawyers had petitioned for. Dr Lecter was allowed, for thirty minutes each week, to walk around a large empty hall, attached by a chain to the ceiling. There was a large thick red line marked on the floor that showed where it was safe for others to walk. When Mariette visited, she paid no heed to this line.

When the door to the hall was unlocked for the first time, Mariette stood for a moment just staring at her father in amazement, seeing him for the first time in three years without glass or bars separating them. He half smiled at her, as though without the glass he was naked to her, all his faults on display for her to peruse through and to come to judgement over.

Then Mariette raced towards him, heedless of the 'DO NOT CROSS' signs painted to the floor, and wrapped her arms firmly around him, once again laying her head to his chest and listening to his heart beat. The armed guards had all raised their weapons when she raced across the line, the safety clips removed and guns aimed at Dr Lecter.

But Dr Lecter did not attack the girl, like they thought he would. Instead he ducked his head to kiss her tenderly on the forehead.

"Ah, _ma belle_ , I have missed you. I wish I could hold you, but I'm afraid my arms are tied behind my back."

Mariette giggled lightly and hugged her father tighter. "God, it's good to be able to hold you again. I remember my fourth birthday. You carried me home and I pressed my ear to your breast to hear your heart beat. It's fluttering like a starling's wings now, Papa. I can tell that you are happy."

"Would you dance with me, Mariette?" Dr Lecter asked. "I'm afraid my movements may be a little restricted and that I can not hold you as a proper dance partner should, but I still remember how to waltz."

Mariette beamed up at him, placing a hand on his waist and as close to his shoulder as she could reach and he led them through the first few steps. They were like this when the doors opened again, startling Mariette into dropping her arms to her side. Dr Chilton generally, now, allowed her as long with her father as she wished and her father's half an hour in the exercise room was not up.

The stranger was blond, with bright blue eyes and tanned skin. He looked worried and afraid all at once, but Mariette got the distinct impression this was not a man who scared easily. She also thought she recognised his face from somewhere. It took a moment for her to remember, and then she spoke his name on a whisper that was loud in the silent room.

"Special Agent Will Graham," she murmured. "You used to give me lollipops until I found you bleeding on Papa's study floor."

"Good morning, Will," Dr Lecter said, stepping around his daughter to walk as close to Graham as he could. "So nice of you to visit again."

Mariette smiled as she caught on to her father's game. He would tell her as much as he could, without outright saying anything.

Graham glanced at Mariette, frowning a little. "Miss Lecter," he said. "I though you were in France."

"Yes," said Mariette. "My mother changed my name to hers and then carted me off as soon as she could. I come to visit Papa regularly, now. I missed him very much."

Graham looked uncomfortable with her words and chose to return his attention to Dr Lecter. He flashed a photograph at the other man, so fast that Mariette only caught a glimpse of it. _Red dragon_ her mind whispered.

"He carved this on a tree near the Jacobi house with a buck knife," Graham told her father.

Dr Lecter raised his head slightly and stared straight into Graham's eyes. "The same one later used on Charles Leeds," he said, rather than asked.

Graham glanced again at Mariette, looking on the edge of asking her to leave. "Yes," he answered simply.

Dr Lecter smiled as he saw the glance and offered his arm as best he could to Mariette. "Take a walk with me," he ordered them both and started moving abruptly.

Mariette skipped a half step to catch up and put a hand through her father's arm, swinging her other hand and humming in the same key as the chains clanked.

"He had a second tool, too. A bolt cutter. He used that to clear his view." As Graham spoke he looked resolutely at Dr Lecter, determined not to think of Mariette.

"But?" Dr Lecter prompted.

"But I don't think that's what he brought it for. Too heavy. Too… too awkward. And he had to carry it a long way."

Dr Lecter glanced at his daughter and smiled as their eyes met, the three of them walking round and around and around.

"And what do we make of that symbol?" he asked.

"Asian studies at Langley identified it as a Chinese character. It appears on a Mahjong piece. It marks the Red Dragon." And still, Graham did not look at all at Mariette. Eyes not moving from Dr Lecter's face.

"Red Dragon," Dr Lecter said, tilting his face up to the bright white, artificial lights. "Correct. This boy begins to interest me."

Mariette wondered silently as Graham finally looked away under her father's intent stare, whether the boy that had begun to interest Dr Lecter was the unknown person they spoke of, or Graham himself.

"Doctor, we don't know what greater meaning this symbol-"

"Do you like my little exercise cage, Will?" Dr Lecter interrupted, walking faster now and making Graham hurry to keep up. "My so called lawyers are always nagging Dr Chilton for better accommodations. I don't know which is the greater fool. Mariette charms them both and gets whatever she wants from them, you know."

Mariette blushed and squeezed her father's arm a little in recognition and perhaps thanks of the compliment - even she was not sure. Graham looked now into her eyes briefly, but soon looked away again. It seemed he could hold her gaze only infinitesimally longer than Dr Lecter's. That thought made Mariette proud.

"Perhaps if you could offer some insight-"

Dr Lecter interrupted again. "A robin red breast in a cage puts all of heaven in a rage." Dr Lecter gazed up at an unspecific point in the ceiling, compelling Graham to look up to. Mariette leaned into her father's arm and laughed silently. Dr Lecter turned maroon eyes back on Graham. "Ever been a red breast, Will?" he asked, smiling. "Of course you have," he answered himself.

Graham was back to watching his feet tread across the ground again. Mariette wondered if he had always acted like this around her father and, if so, how they had ever come to be friends and confidants. It was then that she realised that Graham was not afraid of whoever they were talking of, or where they were. No, he was afraid of Dr Lecter. Mariette remembered in a flash the arrows sticking out of Graham's side and his thick red blood seeping out of him and into the carpet. She knew now why he could not look her father in the eye for very long.

"I'm allowed thirty minutes in here once a week," Dr Lecter continued, oblivious to her revelation. He stopped and looked down at her. "It is the only time I can dance with Mariette, Will." Dr Lecter turned and faced Graham, Mariette's hand slipping out from around his arm. "Get to the point."

Graham glanced again at Mariette, who had stepped a little to the side so she could continue to observe what was happening. Then he said, in a rush, "I think he meant to use the bolt cutter to enter the house, but he didn't. Instead he broke in through the patio doors." Graham paused and took in a deep breath. "The noise woke Jacobi," he said, quieter now and faster, too, as though if he did Mariette might not hear, but Dr Lecter would, "and he had to shoot him on the stairs. That wasn't planned. It was sloppy, and that's not like him.

Dr Lecter cocked his head to one side, the same way Mariette still did sometimes. A slow smile picked at the edges of his mouth, a curious light gleaming in his eyes. "We mustn't judge too harshly, Will, it was first time. Have you never felt a sudden rush of panic?" Dr Lecter suddenly lent forward and bared his teeth as though in attack. His chain rattled loudly as it went taught, holding him upright and away from Graham.

Mariette let out a small burst of startled laughter. Her father was playing with Graham. Playing with him so well, so subtly that the prey hardly noticed it at all. This sent a thrill of excitement tingling down Mariette's back and thought that if that feeling was the reason why her father killed, then perhaps, just perhaps, she understood. It was a tantalising feeling.

Dr Lecter stood straight again and looked fondly at his daughter. " _Ma belle_ ," he murmured so only she heard.

Then he turned back to look at Graham, who had flinched bodily back. "Yes," he hissed. "That's the fear we talked about. It takes experience to master it."

Again, Graham's eyes shot to Mariette, perhaps wondering how long it had taken for _her_ to master the 'fear'. Dr Lecter saw where his gaze was directed and the eerie smile on his face grew larger.

"No, no, Will," he continued, the slight drawl in his accent emphasised slightly. "We're not talking about Mariette. We're talking about _you_. Mariete's never known the thrill, the excitement, the rush… and she doesn't know the fear, like you do. You sensed who I was, back when I was committing what you call my crimes. Mariette lived with me and she didn't."

"She was three," Graham hissed back, leaning forward again.

"Four," Mariette corrected, with a slight smile. "You shot Papa on my birthday."

"So you were hurt -" Dr Lecter continued, ignoring their little interlude, "- not by a fault in your perceptions or your instincts, but because you failed to act on them until it was too late." He looked at the younger man, pity clear in his eyes.

"You could say that," Graham responded, looking up and wincing at the emotion there.

"But you're wiser now."

"Yes." No hesitation.

"Imagine what you would do, Will, if you could go back in time." Mariette's hand gripped her father's arm tighter as he said that. No. Not back to that night.

"Put two in your head before you could palm that stiletto." Again, Graham answered with no hesitation, though a little regret did appear in his face when he saw the genuinely frightened look in Mariette's eyes. She still remembered that night. All of it. Even - especially - the bits she really didn't want to.

Dr Lecter leaned slightly towards Mariette, sensing her discomfort at the conversation, but unable to free his arms to hold and comfort her properly. Still, he chuckled and continued talking to Graham. "Very good, Will," he said. "You know, I believe we're making progress!" he continued in a comically thick accent, before switching back. "And that's what our Pilgrim is doing. He is refining his methods. He is… evolving."

Graham frowned into the pause that followed, searching Dr Lecter's eyes for something; some kind of clue, perhaps? An idea of what was going on inside his head? Mariette buried her face in the crook of her father's elbow and tried to ignore them both, and the images of finding them lying, bleeding on the floor, across the desk, three gunshot wounds through his chest, the possibility of finding him with a bullet through his head… No. _No_ , she would not think of it.

Their conversation continued for only a short while longer, before the loud buzz of the door being unlocked sounded and, after a few more exchanged words, Graham left. Once he was gone, Dr Lecter led his daughter to the centre of the red ring, where he could kneel down next to her. Mariette wrapped her arms tight around his neck and tried her best not to cry.

"Shhh, _ma belle_ ," Dr Lecter murmured into her hair. "I love you. I am alive. It's alright."

Mariette jerked back suddenly, looking at him through tear-filled eyes that made his face seem wobbly. "You kill people," she said in a shocked whisper. "You kill them and you don't care and that - that will never be alright!"

Dr Lecter tilted back on to his heels, looking like he'd been slapped in the face.

"They're sons and daughters too! What if some loony came and killed me? Would you care then?"

"Yes!" He roared, scaring her to silence. "Of course I would care! Doubt my sanity, doubt my personality, doubt my morals, but never, _never_ , doubt that I love you, with all my heart." He spoke quietly now, kneeling towards her again, straining against his bonds, wanting to hold her face, wipe away her tears. " _Ma belle_ ," he purred, "My baby girl. My beautiful child. One day I will tell you why I kill. I'll _show_ you, perhaps. Until then… can you still love me? Like me?"

Mariette stared into the eyes of her father and seemed to consider for a moment, although she knew that the answer she was about to give had little to do with choice. In many ways, he was just a man, this Dr Lecter. In others… to _her_ , at least, he was so much more. "Yes, Papa," Mariette told him quite calmly. "Of course I still love you. You could become Satan himself and, still, I would love you. I must, because I can't find any sort of will in me that could bear not to."

She stepped towards him and wrapped small, but certain, arms back around his neck, burying her face, wet with tears, into his neck. He bowed his own head to press against the side of hers.

"I'm sorry for scaring you," he said, sincerely.

Mariette smiled weakly. "Me too."

Mariette didn't think any longer on Will Graham, although she saw his face often enough in the papers over the next week or so. It was easier to put everything that her father was to one side, so that she might chose what aspects to and not to ignore. That done, life went on as it had before. There was only one significant change that followed the widely talked-of Tooth-Fairy case, and that was that when the case was over, when Francis Dolarhyde was killed, Dr Lecter was rewarded. In a sense.

To most it was not much of a reward. To Dr Lecter, however, it was bordering on life changing. The Bureau and Dr Chilton decided between them that, provided he was on his best behaviour, Dr Lecter was to be allowed to have Mariette join him in his cell.

There were questions raised about this - the sanity, perhaps, of letting a seven year old have such close contact with a crazed killer. The sanity of letting anyone in the same room as Dr Lecter, without his restraints. And yet, Dr Chilton had a soft spot for Mariette and everyone knew that, no matter how… _hungry_ he might be, Dr Lecter would not harm his daughter.

Three years. Three long years. Mariette had grown so much; holding her was entirely new. And, yet, so very familiar. For Mariette, holding her father was so very safe. He seemed smaller at first, more rounded, perhaps, than he had been before. Yet so very strong. Anyone else, if they felt Dr Lecter's arms around them, they would scream blue murder. But Mariette could only hug back, leaning her head against his chest and listening for a heart beat as she had all those years ago.

Watching through the video link the guards couldn't help but smile. They had, all three of them, come to know Mariette and Dr Lecter very well and watching them just stand, holding one another for the full hour they had together was like watching any other long-lost family reunite. For a little while it didn't matter that he ate people and she disliked that part of him. It didn't matter that they were, in many respects, monster and angel.

At the end of the hour, he kissed her on the forehead and retreated to the corner of his cell as the guards opened the door for her. She smiled as she walked all the way home and Lady Murasaki cooked them a traditional Japanese meal in celebration. Popil humoured 'his girls' and kept his usually liberal sarcastic comments to himself. Perhaps it was then that Mariette realised just how much she meant to these people. Perhaps she didn't notice.


	3. The Interim Years

About a week after the end of the 'Tooth Fairy'-come-'Red Dragon' case, whilst Mariette was revising her Japanese vocabulary, she got a surprise visitor in the form of one Will Graham.

He had a large white bandage strapped across half of his face and he spoke awkwardly around it, just as he stood awkwardly on the threshold of the apartment. The tan, that had been a rich bronze when Mariette had last seen him had faded to what she suspected was a shade away from his natural skin tone. His bright blue eyes were filled with new horrors, freshly imprinted upon his memory and still haunting him constantly.

Lady Murasaki, who had answered the door, led him into the main body of the apartment and offered him a seat in the lounge area. Then she disappeared behind one of the soft dividers to continue making dinner.

"Mr Graham?" Mariette asked politely, putting her writing materials to one side for a moment. "Was there something that I can do for you?"

It was absurd, the supposition that a seven year old might be able to do something to help a world-hardened forty-odd year old like Graham.

"I-" Graham began, and then stopped again, blushing as though he had just realised the absurdity of the situation. "I had a question for you, that is all."

Mariette gazed at him with sharp eyes and tilted her head a little to the side, then she nodded once, sharply. "I imagine you have more than one question. Feel free to ask. I might not be able to answer, but I'll do my best."

Graham could not hold her gaze and looked down at his fingers that were sat unnaturally still upon his thighs. "How do you love him? Knowing what he has done, would continue to do, how can you love him?"

The seven year old gave a long, heavy sigh and turned her face to follow the silhouette or her guardian moving around behind it. The movements stilled momentarily, then continued. Mariette bit her lip and turned back to Graham. "He is my father, Mr Graham. He loved me, cared for me, honoured me. It disgusts me what he has done to others, but he is still my father and always will be. Until he hurts me or those important to me, I can not care more for strangers than for someone who means the world to me. Does that make me a horrible person?"

"No," Graham replied immediately. Then, after a little consideration, he answered her question seriously. "No, it doesn't. It makes you human, certainly. But… well, you knew that I was friends with your father and I still have difficulty fitting my friend into the façade of a monster.

"I have theories, Miss Babineaux. Theories about Lecter's humanity, his morality. Maybe one day I'll share them."

"Don't," Mariette said. "Write them down, lock them away and then forget him. Forget my father, forget the horrors that now haunt you and let the past lie. Or you'll never be able to live for the future."

"Thank you," he replied, then left.

For a while there was only a space in the air that the vigour of Graham's personality left behind, but then the air shifted and it was gone and Mariette could put the detective out of her mind. She glanced up when Lady Murasaki asked if she were alright, answered the affirmative and then turned back to her Japanese vocab, as though nothing had happened.

For the next three years, nothing did happen. Mariette grew and learned. She could now speak fluently in English, French, German, Italian and Japanese and could also read Latin. Her skill with a pencil improved a little, but her proficiency was a constant 'mediocre'. Her musical skills, however, were another matter. The ear she had as a child had only improved with age and she had excelled in playing any instrument that she chose to try, although she favoured the violin and piano. Her voice, too, had improved, and with a little training she had become a star in the school choir.

Mariette had two very close friends, Seth Boardman and Jess Gallager. Seth was two years older than the two girls and he lived in the apartment above Mariette. He had become something of a big brother to her, warning off all those who might want to bully her for who she was and what she could do. He had been expelled from the last school he'd gone to and looked to be expelled from the next one too. Seth's heart was in the right place, but he was hot-headed and when he felt like he or something important to him was threatened, he would fight for it, quite literally.

Jess was a quiet, brown-skinned little girl who was the only other child who could rival Mariette's voice. Between them they could get the school auditorium on their feet, cheering loudly. For, although quiet when talking, Jess had the voice and tone of a Goddess when on stage. She sang like Shirley Bassey and she knew it. She was pompous and rich didn't give many other students the time of day - Mariette was the only one who she had allowed beneath the hostile exterior to see the dread she had of disappointing her parents.

Every Saturday, Mariette visited her father. They sat in his cell and talked in hushed voices of a million and one different things. She taught him a little more Japanese, he taught her human biology, doing his best to leave out the best ways to kill a human and failing miserably. By the time Mariette was ten she knew over fifty ways of killing a human being with her bare hands. Wisely, she chose not to pass this information on to either her friends or her guardians.

The next significant event that took place was shortly before Mariette's eleventh birthday. She was to start Middle School the following School year and her mother finally took an interest in her life. Mariette was now what Madame Babineaux considered a 'young lady'. In the French education system she was about to start _Sixième_ , the beginning of her secondary education, finally leaving _les cours préparatoire_ and starting 'real school'. As the daughter of a French Diplomat it made a twisted sort of sense that Mariette must continue her education in France.

Mariette was not pleased by this. Refusing to go to France on her own, Madame Babineaux was forced, finally, to go against the vow she made years ago and to return to America. The French lady bore this with ill spirit and was further displeased when, at the time she arrived, Mariette was not at home, but at the Forensic Hospital, visiting her father. Determined to drag Mariette home by her hair if she must, Madame Babineaux stalked off to the Hospital, charming Dr Chilton with swift ease to allow her immediately down.

"Papa," Mariette was saying as her mother arrived. "That woman is coming today. She thinks I should be educated in France."

Dr Lecter glanced up from the sketch he was doing, to glance at Mariette who sat facing him the opposite side of the desk. "She is your mother."

"Pfft," Mariette made a derogatory noise. "She birthed me, that is all. That hardly makes her my Mama."

"You might enjoy a French education," Dr Lecter told her, his smile turning indulgent as a pout appeared on Mariette's face.

" _Mais Papa!_ " she protested, "I would not see you for great lengths of time."

"I do not think many ten year olds would spend every Saturday afternoon sitting and talking with their 'old man'," Dr Lecter teased.

Mariette turned her nose up to him and slumped back against the stone wall behind her. "Other ten year olds may see their 'old man' everyday of the week."

Dr Lecter said nothing, sensing her change in mood from mildly put-out to upset. He wondered what it would be like to live with his lively, beautiful daughter. She told endless stories of her friends, of her music, of her classes, of parties and outings to the cinema and he wished that he could have featured in them, even only as the over-bearing parent. It made him wonder at his own selfishness for having caved to his cannibalistic whims, rather than resisting and giving Mariette the life - and father - she deserved.

A scream filled the air and brought his thoughts to a sudden stop. A moment later Madame Babineaux was pressing herself to the glass of Dr Lecter's cell, babbling and screaming about the safety of her 'darling daughter' trapped inside a cage with a homicidal, cannibalistic maniac.

What happened next happened in moments. Before either Mariette or her mother could register the movement, Dr Lecter was on his knees by the glass, biting hard through Madame Babineaux' fingers, that had been pressed through the glass holes. And then she was screaming for an entirely different reason, back away from the glass, desperately trying reclaim her fingers for her own.

Mariette shrank back against the wall, but did not turn her gaze away, maroon eyes, glowing - like her father's - an eerie red in the dim lighting. She had never been disgusted by the sight of blood and, since her friendship with Seth, any remaining fear had disappeared completely. Seth would, if he did not destroy his hopes completely, become a forensic detective. His curiosity with all things once-living was incomparable. Mariette had taught him how to correctly dissect a rat that Seth had found behind some trash cans and he had proved a fast learner, quickly outstripping her limited knowledge.

Now, she watched without pity as her Father tried to remove her mother's fingers with his teeth. It was strange, to accept a truth as given for half her life time, but not to _know_ it, not to _understand_ it until it happened before her. A curious, passionless rage settled across her Father's face - an oxymoron in itself. Yet, he was both frantic and calm - in motion and still. Dr Lecter was in complete control of himself and Mariette found that the fear she had once held in face of her father disappeared utterly.

The doctors could call him as mad as they liked, but he knew what he was doing. Dr Lecter's body language spoke of a love of what he was doing, not a desperation. Like an artist painting a masterpiece - he did not _have_ to paint, but he felt that he must. In that instant Mariette understood her father and could not hate him, could not fear him. He was different. Horribly, terribly different, but still just human nonetheless. And, like her understanding that musicians were Gods on stage, but human in a crowd, she came to see that her father was a monster under the microscope, but human in a crowd. Just like everyone else.

She leant forward and placed a shaking hand on her Father's shoulder. Immediately he released Madame Babineaux' fingers, although not soon enough to save them. She fell back into the arms of the guards who'd been trying to intercept.

Dr Lecter turned sharply to face his daughter, wrapping her swiftly in his arms and hugging her tightly to him. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, _ma belle_." His eyes did not meet hers until she placed trembling fingers to his blood-stained cheek and directed him to look at her. Only then did he understand that it was not fear that made her shake so, but the sudden onslaught of knowledge and he could not help but smile. Always he had feared her reaction to what he was, who he was. And now - now he knew that her love for him was assured. He hugged her tightly and dropped his head to press kisses into her blonde hair, mindless of the blood he dripped into her blonde locks.

Madame Babineaux fainted soon thereafter and it took the guards some moments to move her to safety before they could get into Dr Lecter's cell to intercept his and Mariette's embrace.

"I don't think I'll see you for a while, Papa," Mariette told him sadly as the guards 'rescued' her.

"You shall enjoy France, you'll see," he returned, and then smiled. "All my love, _ma belle_."

And, despite the bleakness presented by any number of years that stretched before her between then and when she'd see him again, Mariette smiled sweetly. "I love you too, Papa."

And then Mariette was removed from his sight completely and taken to the main body of the Hospital. The doctor rushed to her as she entered his room and began to probe at her head. It took him a moment to realise that Mariette herself was not bleeding or hurt at all.

"Miss Babineaux?" he asked, confused.

Mariette smiled a little bitterly. "Papa would not hurt me, sir. He saw that I did not like his hurting Mother and so he stopped and hugged me. When he kissed my head, her blood spilt over my head."

The doctor swore loudly but unoriginally and swiftly apologised, at least having the decency to look abashed, then asked if she was alright.

"You've already confirmed that I am unharmed," she replied.

"No - no, I mean psychologically. Are you emotionally alright?"

He was patronising and if Mariette had any respect remaining for him it vanished utterly. "If you don't mind, Doctor, I would like to go home. I've had a… trying day. I wish to see my relatives."

"Well you can't catch the bus covered in blood," the doctor reminded her as a dribble rolled toward Mariette's eye and she wiped it impatiently away, the blood smearing across the side of her face like an extension to her eyebrow.

Barney, one of the guards stepped forward, and suggested, "I'll take her home. It'll only take a couple of minutes."

And that was that. The doctor offered forth a few more, half-hearted protestations and Mariette wondered whether he had been told to retain her for as long as he could. Then she and Barney left, he taking her hand like he had when she was first visiting and he walked her back out to her Uncle and Aunt's car. Strangely, while the doctor's disregard for her intelligence, this was not patronising, but comforting. Barney was not suggesting that she was younger, inferior than him, just that she might need comfort. So she squeezed his hand as he unlocked his car and held the door open for her.

"Thank you," she said.

"He'll miss you," Barney replied some moments later. "I saw you in there; you weren't afraid of him."

"He's my Papa, Barney. I love him."

"You can still fear what you love."

Again there was only the whir of the motor and the sound of other cars whilst neither of them said anything. Then, she said. "I understand, him. Dr Chilton tries so hard to see, but you have to be there, to see him eat someone to understand. How can you analyse a film you haven't seen?"

"It's a scary thing, knowledge," was all Barney said in return.

"Yes," Mariette whispered, simply, and nothing else was said between them other than quiet goodbyes before Barney left her standing by the entrance to her building.

Popil was the first to see her, and his concern for her made her feel more comfortable with where she was in her life. His father-like worrying over her was familiar and worn-in, so she could hug him tight and tell him that, no, no, no, it was not. He helped wash the drying blood from her hair and let her sit, curled up on his lap as she explained what had happened that day.

"I was always curious," he told her. "But I was too afraid to see; I did not want to know, in case I saw something of myself in him."

"He's just human," Mariette said. "He's not a monster at all, he just sees the world differently from us."

"That's what I'm afraid of," Popil whispered into her hair. "I don't want to know that I could have been him, given a different start in life. I don't want to be a monster."

Mariette looked up and wrapped her arms around his neck, kissing him on the cheek. "You are not, _Oncle_ Pascal. You are not."

When Lady Murasaki got home, Mariette told the story once more and allowed comfort to be lavished upon her as her guardians came to realise that the incidents of the day meant that Mariette was truly leaving them for France.

"Papa said that I might enjoy the French education," Mariette said, and Popil laughed, though she did not understand why.

Mariette stayed a further week with Lady Murasaki and Popil before Madame Babineaux recovered herself and her dignity enough to descend upon their household and spirit Mariette away. As they had predicted, the ten year old did not get the chance to see her Father again. Instead, she was put in a plane and flown halfway across the world, back to Paris.

Paris in the summer was beautiful and Mariette found that, though she felt the separation from her father dearly, she could live with it. She escaped from the clutches of her mother often, catching buses and trams and trains across France's capital and enjoying the sights to be seen. She expanded on her collection of the classics, enjoying the taste of French and Latin as it rolled off her tongue in the poets' stanzas. It was two months after her arrival that she was approached by a man known only as 'Jacques'.

She had 'missed' the bus home from school again, catching instead, one that took her to _Champs de Mars_. Mariette had a favourite bench, opposite the park and in the shadow of the Eiffel Tower, where she could curl up and read. She was part way through Dante's _Divine Comedy_ when Jacques approached, sitting next to her.

Mariette ignored the stranger for half an hour, perhaps, before he spoke to her.

"Mademoiselle Lecter?" he asked.

She glanced up sharply, eyes narrowed, and tips of her fingers white as they pressed tight to the pages of her books. " _Oui_ ," she answered, stiffly.

He smiled. " _Je m'appelle Jacques. Parle-vous Anglais?_ "

"Yes," she answered again.

"It's alright, sweetheart, I don't want to hurt you, just to talk."

"Who are you?" It was her turn to demand answers, and they both knew she did not mean his name.

"I'm whoever you want me to be," he told her with a smile.

"Why?"

"Because you are ten and you escape from school everyday, you see next to nothing of your mother, and because you seem to hate her. I will be whoever you want me to be because I hate her too."

Mariette saw in her mind's eye the flash of movement before her mother's screams of pain broke out. She remembered that fire in her Father's eyes as he ripped her fingers from her hands with his teeth, recalled the blood dripping from his mouth, falling like rubies to land in her hair. She could almost smell the distinct tang of copper and her eyes fluttered shut for a moment. She had seen, that morning, the unbandaged remnants of her mother's hand. And Mariette had felt no pity.

She opened her eyes and looked at this stranger called Jacques. "I want you to be her murderer."

Two weeks later, Madame Babineaux died. It had taken that long for Mariette to make sure that, given her mother's death, she would return to the custody of Lady Murasaki and Popil. Then she had told Jacques that he may kill her, if he so wished. Within hours of their meeting, Madame Babineaux was found dead at the bottom of a twelve-story building, a suicide note clutched in her mangled hand. It was stylishly pulled off, her murder.

The public mourned Madame Babineaux' death and her daughter put on a stellar performance for the papers, the tears creeping down her cheeks seemed real, the pain in her expression seemed genuine as she answered the press' question with a single one of her own - "Why?" - that could mean anything, in reference to anything and meant nothing that anyone guessed.

Three months after she left America, Mariette was back, bringing with her the entire Babineaux fortune. Despite her mother's lavish ways, Madame Babineaux earned more than she spent and had a great amount saved up; money that her mother had no doubt never intended for her to have. But it seemed as though the world had decided to work against Mariette.

In her time away two major things had happened; the first was that the Gallagers had moved to Seattle, taking Jess with them. An entire continent separated the two best friends and, after three months separation already, it was hardly surprising that the friendship between them withered and died. As such, Mariette was left with no musical talent at the school that was comparable to her own and she found herself becoming bored with it.

The second, more important discovery, also impacted Mariette's life in a very large way. Popil was diagnosed with Pancreatic Cancer. It was not in the particularly advanced stages, and the doctors held hope that the cancer could still be removed, but it meant that for the next two years Pascal was in and out of surgery. The chemo and radiotherapy made them all forget that Popil had ever been the vibrant, vital man that he had once been. He became the shell of what he once was and Lady Murasaki's health withered with his as she watched him suffer.

Mariette was no longer allowed in her father's cell, but she still visited him regularly. But Dr Lecter did not understand the concept of loss, not in the way that Mariette was suffering with it. He knew what it felt like to suddenly lose his family, but to watch them whither and die around him was something he could not emphasise with it. In his youth, perhaps he might have understood better as he, too, would have hurt watching Lady Murasaki fade. But he had built his walls high against her, and he could offer Mariette little more than philosophical expressions about loss that he did not himself understand.

So Mariette turned to the one friend that she had remaining; Seth Boardman. The relationship between them grew and blossomed until the original explanation of siblings in all but blood no longer truly applied. They were friends - best friends in some ways, but more than that at others. When she turned twelve, and he was fourteen, they shared their first - with any one, but more importantly, with each other - kiss. It had been a mere peck of the lips, that was nothing more than a brush of skin against skin, but it soothed both in ways they could not explain.

Seth had finally taken a little more responsibility in his life, and was headed towards a prosperous, if mundane future repairing engines of all sorts. He liked motorcycles the best, but he was handy with just about any motor engine that ran on petrol or diesel. Sometimes he tried to teach Mariette what he was doing, but it didn't interest her. She liked to sit and talk to him as he worked, or to just watch as his long, nimble fingers slipped across the machinery and made it purr like a satisfied cat.

And Mariette, after sometime wandering aimlessly in her academic career, recovered some of her exuberance for learning, as Popil recovered from his surgery. The cancer had not been completely removed, but the treatment guaranteed him a further four years, a fifth if he was lucky. Mariette threw herself back into her music with abandon and it was rare to see her without her violin rather than with it. Her singing also improved and Seth's favourite way to spend a Saturday afternoon was underneath the engine of a Harley-Davidson with Mariette practicing her music in accompaniment.

When Mariette related this fact to her father, Dr Lecter seemed to get great amusement from it, although his dislike for Seth grew. Mariette, and so her father too, was acutely aware that Seth did not have anything near her amount of natural intelligence, and the wasted years of his education meant that he would never learn as much as she did either. But whilst to Mariette this did not matter, because he was her anchor in a turbulent world, to her father it was of great concern.

Because of the fluidity and subtleties of Mariette and Seth's relationship, and Dr Lecter's fatherly over-protectiveness in concern to Mariette, it was with suspicion that he listened to anything related to Seth. He did not trust the boy as far as he could throw him. At times he was content that it was sibling-like friendship, others he feared that Seth's lack of intellect was dragging his daughter down. And at other times, in the blackest of moments, he feared that Seth meant more than that to his daughter.

Dr Lecter had only ever romantically loved Lady Murasaki, and that had been a perverse, twisted love that his twisted, perverse heart had clung to like a life boat when he could have drowned in a sea of vengeful bitterness. It had ended with neither of them seeing or speaking to the other for almost thirty years, and only then because he had been thrown in jail finally. Dr Lecter did not believe his daughter would ever do something worthy of being locked up, and so feared that she might be dragged down to below her full potential by becoming enamoured of a boy who was clearly not worthy of her time, let along her heart.

When he first mentioned this notion to his daughter, she had yelled at him and stormed off, for 'dissing' her best friend. He was the only one who was always there for and always had been since they had first known each other. No one else in her life could claim that anymore, not since Popil's illness had forced his and Lady Murasaki's attention from Mariette - and Dr Lecter didn't even factor in; _he_ had ended up in jail.

The second time he told her, Mariette had laughed at him. She was twelve, she said. Even if they _had_ kissed - and that on its own was enough to get Dr Lecter stalking up and down within his cell like a caged lion - she didn't believe she would fall in love with someone she'd want to spend the rest of her life with at this stage.

"One day, Papa, I shall meet a man who will sweep me off my feet. He will be handsome and intelligent and he will love me like the Earth loves the Sun. And when he goes down on one knee and asks me to love and live with him always - _then_ you may become all protective of me and threaten to eat the poor man if he dares hurt me. But until then, you are not to say or do anything. Else I shall never marry."

He had tried to argue with this, but Mariette had shot him one of _those_ looks that meant she was right and they both knew it. Mariette had told him on more than one occasion that if she hadn't spent the first four years of her life being brought up by him, and all of her short life tenderly loved by him, she would find him too terrifying to be in the same room with, even if she had not known what he had done. Because of this, Dr Lecter supposed Mariette's provisions were reasonable enough. He had the right to be protective of her, but not the right to rule her life to the extent she did not have one outside of him.

Still, he did not like Seth. He did not ever bring the subject up again, although he was sorely tempted a number of times, but he dare not broach it again. After first anger, then hilarity, he had no desire to learn what Mariette's next reaction to the subject would be. Dr Lecter found that as she grew up, whilst she remained his darling daughter, she became less and less predictable. And Mariette was canny enough to know how to use that fact to her advantage.

In fact, by the time Mariette first reached her teenage years, Dr Lecter was well aware that she had full knowledge - and appreciation of the fact that she had him tightly wrapped around her little finger. Of course, in many respects she was just enamoured of him, but whilst Dr Lecter wasted away within his maximum security prison, she had a life full of colour and experience that did not involve him in anyway. She loved her father, but he was part of the darker, much more private part of her life.

When Mariette did turn thirteen, she gave her father one of her compositions. With the help of Mack, the technician at her school, she had managed to record herself in the three parts that were required; violin, piano, and singing. It was against the security protocols to pass Dr Lecter a cassette, much less anything to play it on, but Mariette convinced Dr Chilton to set up a cassette player outside his cell. The day after her birthday, she came down and her father listened to her music for the first time in nine years. From the babblings of a four year old - no matter how good ear her had been even then - she had progressed a hundred fold and if he had ever been one to show emotions, he might have wept.

Dr Lecter had nothing even close to the equivalent to give back, and protested that it was her birthday, not his. Mariette could not find a way to explain to a man such as he, that her gift had been his enjoyment and pride in her, not the receiving of some shop-bought gift that would be thrown out and discarded within months of its purchase.

"Miss Lecter!" one of the guards, Barney - who had been the only one who refused to call her by her new legal surname of Babineaux - called out an hour or so after her arrival. "I'm sorry to cut the meeting short, but Mr Lecter has a visitor."

"Ah, yes," Dr Lecter said, with one of his small, smug little smiles. "Jack Crawford's man."

Mariette shook her head in exasperation - her father took such delight in teasing government officials that came periodically to try and route some kind of truth or understanding from him. "I bet it'll be a woman and you'll get your knickers in a twist, insult her terribly and then feel like failure afterwards," she told him flippantly, picking up the tape recorder, after Barney instructed her to leave the chair.

"You have no manners, _ma belle_ ," he scolded, without denying her previous statement.

" _Au contraire,_ " she retorted. "I have plenty of manners, but I enjoy teasing you and it does wind you up wonderfully."

He chuckled and pressed a kiss to his fingertips, before slipping them through the holes in the glass, whilst Mariette did similarly. "All my love," he promised.

"I love you too," Mariette said back, and left him standing in his cell, swinging her arm holding the cassette player gaily. As she passed Dr Chilton escorting a young, attractive woman down to the cells, she just managed to greet them cordially before leaving them swiftly, so that she might giggle in private.


	4. The Silence of the Lambs

_**Lecter Child Prodigy**  
Yesterday, Mariette Babineaux-Lecter - the illegitimate child of the deceased French diplomat Emile Babineaux and Hannibal ‘The Cannibal’ Lecter - made her debut with Baltimore city Orchestra.  
At only thirteen years of age, Ms Babineaux-Lecter is the youngest recorded member of the orchestra and specialises in not one but two instruments; the violin and piano.  
On top of this, Mariette is a prominent member of the city choir, is fluent in five languages, excels at school and still has time to visit her infamous father at the asylum once a week.  
“Papa, to others, is a monster, a psychopath, a research subject,” the child prodigy told us. “To me, though, he is just my father, a man like any other. As Dr Chilton and the nurses will attest to, very little of his insanity is obvious when I visit him.  
“I am well aware of his crimes - he does not try and hide them from me, although he apologises to me for their stopping him being a better father. Papa takes pride in me and encourages me in my pursuits - that is enough.”  
Mariette’s experiences with an insane criminal as her father have not dampened her spirit. She has told us that overcoming prejudice against her was much the same as learning to utilise the extra finger on her left hand - a rare condition she inherited from her father - and in fact it was because of these things that she persevered to become the genius talent we know and love today.  
For more on Mariette Babineaux-Lecter - etc._  
  
-  
  
When Special Agent Clarice Starling went to see Dr Lecter for the second time, it was fairly late at night and raining outside. She had just come from informing the authorities of the head she had found in Benjamin Raspail’s old car. She was soaked through as she made her way downstairs, barely pausing long enough in Dr Chilton’s office to wave her badge in his face. When she made it down to the guard station, the familiar face of Barney appeared.  
  
“He’s got a guest, Ms Starling,” he told her. “I don’t know if you’ll want to interrupt them.” Despite his words, he opened the sound proof door that preceded the double set of barred doors. As he did, Starling heard something strange.  
  
The dungeons that before had been riotous with screaming, were silent of voices. Instead someone was playing the violin - not only playing it, but playing it so that the melody made love to the ears of those who listened. Without thinking about it, Starling paused mid-stride and tilted her head to the side to listen to the haunting tune. It lasted only moments longer, before it trailed of, leaving the taste of melancholy in the air behind it.  
  
“Clarice Starling,” the Doctor’s voice called suddenly, startling not only Starling but the other inmates from their rapture. Just before the screaming started again, Dr Lecter continued. “Let her in, Barney, there’s someone I’d like for her to meet.”  
  
Barney shook his head and hesitated only a moment longer before doing as requested. There was still a stiltedness to his actions that demonstrated his uneasiness about the situation. The doors clanged loudly as he unlocked, locked, opened and closed them. Finally, Starling was through and walking briskly down the corridor, curious as to who it was that Dr Lecter wanted to introduce her to - and as to what the music had been.  
  
Stood at the end of the corridor, perfectly poised and still, the violin still resting in the ready position, the bow waiting just above the strings, was a young girl. She was about thirteen or fourteen years in age, with golden hair, maroon eyes and a smooth, pale complexion. Starling did not need to be told that this was Mariette Lecter, or Babineaux, or Babineaux-Lecter, depending on where you were getting your information from. There was an element to this girl that was so very much like her father, though she did not seem to share many features with him. The unnatural stillness they both could maintain, the way her chin was tilted, the way those red eyes swirled with intelligence and light when you gazed into them.  
  
“Clarice,” Dr Lecter said, “Let me introduce you to my daughter, Mariette.” He was just as still as his child, but he was hidden by shadows in the back corner of his cell, sitting as though attempting to disappear if he could maintain the position for long enough.  
  
Mariette lowered her instrument and bow and curtsied prettily for the guest. “Mademoiselle Starling,” she said politely with precise French pronunciation. “Papa was telling me about your previous visit. I was curious as to why dear Miggs was gone.”  
  
“ _Dear_ Miggs?” Starling could not help but ask.  
  
“He did so love my music,” Mariette responded readily, smiling charmingly. “And when Papa and I spoke in French he was very good at imitating the words back to us. I have a fortunate tendency to bring out only the best in people,” she continued as though owing the newcomer a better explanation.  
  
“How - how can you hear what your father has done and not care?” Starling felt herself compelled to question next.  
  
Mariette turned away and picked up the cloth from her violin case, dusting off the instrument carefully. She loosened the strings a little and replaced it in the case. Then she hooked the bow back into the case before closing it and latching it shut. Only then did she answer.  
  
“Everyday of my life for ten years now, has been about my father. I can not go a single day without someone mentioning it. Even today, when I debuted with the Baltimore City Orchestra, the people don’t want to know about me, they want to know about ‘Hannibal the Cannibal’. My Mama hated me for who my father was, killed herself for it. I am only allowed to see him because Dr Chilton wishes to see what psychological effects my being here will have on Papa.   
  
“People always like to give me gruesome, make-believe details about my father’s killings. They like telling me precisely what my father must have felt, biting into the soft flesh of his victim, cooking his victim’s liver or heart. I have heard more horror from those who know nothing about me than any thirteen year old should have to bear.  
  
“Now tell me, after nine years, do you honestly think that one more death, one more description, a thousand more rumours, is going to make a difference? Perhaps it makes me a monster too, Miss Starling, but I love Papa. I always will, no matter what he does. With the entire world condemning him, does he not deserve at least one other soul who will forgive him everything?”  
  
Starling hesitated, staring a long time into Mariette’s eyes, before looking into the darkness to Dr Lecter. “I don’t know,” she answered finally. “Does he?”  
  
Mariette smiled tightly, sadly. Then she moved close to the glass of Dr Lecter’s cage, twisting her fingers through the holes as she always did. Her father moved forward, finally, and twisted his own fingers with hers, bowing down to her and kissing her fingertips.  
  
“All my love, _ma belle_ ,” he murmured.  
  
“I love you too, Papa,” she replied, as she always did. Then Mariette stooped once more to pick up her violin case, and stepped towards the exit. Just before she left, however, she turned once more to Starling. “If you feel at all inclined, I would be honoured if you would come and listen to the orchestra perform tomorrow night. I shall mail you a ticket.” Then, to her father - “Be nice.” before she left, the doors clanging unheard over the screams and moans of other inmates.  
  
Her parting words floated between agent and convict with a strange irony to them that tasted bitter in the air and caused Dr Lecter to quirk a half-smile and tilt his head like a curious bird. Starling did not move, muscles tensing as she allowed the words to settle and almost fade. Then she turned to interview Dr Lecter properly, the memory of Mariette and her violin tune still poignant.  
  
-  
  
Mariette could tell from the look on her face that Starling was not familiar with classical music, but still knew how to appreciate it. Starling was not yet knowledgeable in the ways of godliness and mortality in the embodiment of a musician and gazed across the orchestra like a devout raises their face to God. Mariette took great pleasure in that unrestrained look of joy. So many who went to listen to orchestras were patrons and maintained impassive masks until the musicians became mere mortals once more and they could praise and belittle as much as they liked. Or they were students, come to listen to enrich their lives, but with little true understanding or love of the music that could thrum through a person’s mind, body and awaken their soul.  
  
Starling was of another sort, and for that alone Mariette was glad for her invitation. She could not say what possessed her to make the offer, nor to extend it to dinner out afterwards, but she was glad. Perhaps it would be good to have an acquaintance in common with her father. Barney the orderly and Dr Chilton hardly counted, and nor did Popil or Lady Murasaki anymore. Mostly because Mariette feared Dr Lecter would not recognise either of their relatives if he saw them again.   
  
Popil’s cancer had become increasingly worse and, as his health failed, so did Lady Murasaki’s. They were part of the reason that Mariette spent so much of her time out of the house now. She loved them both dearly, but to have to watch them dying was killing her. The apartment they had lived in together for over half her lifetime was as stylish as ever, but there was the creeping smell of desperation and decay at the edge of it, hidden in the shadows - in the sewing Mariette doubted Lady Murasaki would ever finish; in the half-carved picture frame that she knew Popil would never finish.  
  
But the thoughts of decay and death were always brushed aside, replaced by the here and now. And for now, Mariette was performing. She was sat immediately behind the second violinist and half-hidden from the audience by the first seat, but she could still make out familiar faces in the sea of upturned visages.   
  
There was Mr Jenkins her homeroom teacher, his wife sat stiffly next to him not appreciating the music or his company. There was Terrence ‘Terry’ Gallager, the head librarian at Baltimore State Library, the music carrying him through an imagination too expansive to reign in. At the back in the seats half smothered in darkness a group of teenagers, trying to enjoy the show, but finding more comfort in one another than the melodies. Then there was a group of about eight whom Mariette recognised more from the papers than from memory as being her Father’s old friends - _acquaintances_. There was only one missing from their party - suicide apparently.  
  
Mariette returned her attention to the music with a slight smile touching her lips. She had argued morality and mortality hundreds of times - both out loud with another and silently in her head - and the difference between killing another and killing oneself still amused her. A life was a life, was it not? And yet… murder has always been and always will be worse than suicide.   
  
The melody hit a crescendo and Mariette shut out all other thought as she helped the symphony come to its thrilling end, her nerves on fire with the passion of the music. Her eyes opened again when the music finished, startling her with light - she hadn’t realised her eyes had shut. She smiled brightly at the other musicians and rose with them to walk out. She would not change her dress as some of the women did before after-show mingling, but she did touch up her meagre make up and check her hair. Mariette placed one fingertip on her lips and kissed it gently. She wiped the sticky gloss from her finger and smiled at her reflection as she left. She had too much French in her not to be a little vain.  
  
Clarice Starling was standing awkwardly on her own in the crowd when Mariette appeared through the stage door. Mariette entered with head tilted a little upwards, walking smoothly with a grace only a stern French mother and hours of practice gifted. Terry reached her first, touching her shoulders with the lightest of touches and smiling appreciatively. He handed her a book tied up with a dark purple ribbon.  
  
“I saw worlds of ivory and nightshade tonight,” he told her. “They were beautiful, thank you.” She was a regular patron at his library and had come to know the old man relatively well. Well enough to know that when he tuned out the real world his imagination provided make believe worlds too brilliant and exuberant for him to attempt to describe. Mariette suspected that he had a mental illness of some kind, but Terry was happy with ambling through life and disappearing into his own mind, so she let him be.  
  
“You are very welcome,” she replied readily, clasping one of his withered hands in her own.  
  
“Here,” he said, pressing the book more firmly into her hands. “A gift in thanks and congratulations. I hope you enjoy it.” Then he touched her shoulders lightly again and left.   
  
Mariette could not see all of the title around the ribbon, but she could see enough to know what it was. _Le Morte d’Arthur_ by Sir Thomas Malory. A true smile lifted the edges of her lips and she stroked the spine a moment before greeting others coming up to talk to her. She was tempted to go up to and talk to the group of people her father had been friendly with, but decided not to push her luck. No point tempting trouble, after all.  
  
After some long moments greeting audience members whom she knew and she did not, Mariette wove her way across the gradually emptying floor to where the awkward almost-FBI agent stood. Starling had cleaned up surprisingly well, and Mariette wondered if her surprise was the result of another type of transformation then banished this thought by chiding herself for already categorising the older female and stereotyping her.   
  
“I have practice first thing tomorrow morning,” Mariette said by way of explanation for the lack of violin case. “I am ready to leave, if that is satisfactory for you?”  
  
Starling nodded, an half-smile flittering briefly across lips drawn thin in anxiety.  
  
The two ladies left more slowly than either would have liked, interrupted on their way out by other members of the audience stopping them to congratulate the youngest orchestra member. And as they did, the strangers couldn’t help but glance at their star’s companion. They made a striking pair.   
  
Both were beautiful and in such dissimilar ways that neither could over cast the other. Mariette was sprightly and pale, with dark eyes and light feet that made her normal walk seem almost like a dance. She was eager and charming, but not so excited that the blush that touched her cheeks became unseemly. Starling had a solemn, solid beauty that came as a result of a life time of waiting and watching and learning. She appeared regal and detached, though somehow avoiding an air of superiority her silence might have given other women. The combination of light and dark, movement and stillness created a stronger link in the minds of onlookers than the relationship between Mariette and Starling yet deserved.  
  
The night, when they finally reached it, was cooler and darker than either expected and so the short walk to the restaurant was swift and silent; not quite long enough to become awkward, but coming close to it. The restaurant itself was small and quite, the lights low and the atmosphere friendly and rouge. The Maitre d’ recognised Mariette and led the two women to a  table with as little hassle as possible. Once seated Mariette spoke again, knowing that left any longer the silence would deepen too far.  
  
“Did you enjoy the performance, Mademoiselle?” she asked, allowing her French accent to become a little more prominent.  
  
“Very much,” Starling replied with sincerity that surprised even herself. “I must confess that classical music is not something I often listen to.”  
  
“Or at all?” Mariette probed lightly, before smiling. “Forgive me, Miss Starling, but I know the faces of learned listeners from the faces of the inexperienced. If only my audiences were full entirely of people like you; so eager to listen and to learn, I would be happy to play to them forever.”  
  
“What are your audiences actually like?” It seemed as though Starling was only pandering to her, not interested in Mariette’s answer  
  
The girl answered honestly regardless, “boring.” Their conversation paused momentarily so they could order, before she expounded. “They do not listen to the music, but to the mistakes in it. They take perverse joy in the faults, rather than glorying in the flawless. Their hearts and minds are closed to the soul of the music, the very thing for which it should be listened to.”  
  
Starling considered this answer for a long moment, and Mariette idly wondered if the line of questioning would continue, or if the detective would get to the point.  
  
“How does your father listen?” Ah! There, what she was really wanting to know.  
  
Mariette smiled to herself and played with the napkin a moment, before remembering her manners and folding her hands into neat stillness on her lap. “Like a child. He hears the mistakes, and stumbles on them. But like any child he picks himself up and carries on running. Running not for any reason, but for the sheer joy of doing so.” Her hands made fluttering movements again, as though to take up the napkin again, but they settled once more without touching it and she carried on, a frown a forming on her forehead. “Only if he is always tripping up - only if the mistakes are numerous and avoidable - does he take matters into his own hands. In the case of the metaphor, obliterating the obstacle in his path. In reality - killing it.”  
  
“Is that why you strive so hard to be perfect? Out of fear that he will… _obliterate_ you?”  
  
“No,” Mariette smiled softly, now stroking the stem of her water-filled wine glass. “My heart has been in his hands since the moment my mother handed it - and me - over. Papa has always cherished it, shielded it from both the cruelties of the world and of himself. It is not in him to go to such lengths to nurture, only to destroy later. I endeavour to achieve perfection because it is beautiful. Mistakes in me do not annoy my father, rather, the lack of them delights him. Do you understand?”  
  
Starling studied her a while longer, before a small smile graced her lips. “Yes. I think I do.”  
  
The world seemed to falter for a singular moment in time as Mariette felt a connection that was entirely new. This woman, though young and naïve and new, was not lying. Unlike Pascal and Lady Murasaki, who pitied Dr Lecter and wished to change him, to make him better as though he were a broken toy, Starling wished to understand.   
  
There was an infinite amount of patience in this woman, Mariette thought. She did not have the skill of motionlessness that Mariette and Dr Lecter did, something about her too _alive_ to be contained in a complete absence of movement, but nonetheless Starling had an ability to watch and wait that few did. She struck Mariette as the type who could step back and watch silently as the world burnt around her, if she knew that her voice would make no difference. It seemed a very lonely place to be.   
  
As if needing in that instant to break the solitude, Mariette placed feather-light fingertips to the FBI’s wrist. The older woman watched with dark, serious eyes as the younger smiled sweetly, offering whatever comfort a virtual stranger is able.  
  
Their food arrived and the trance was broken. The conversation thereafter was lighter, not as philosophical or as searching and Mariette felt as though she were letting out a long breath, held in by the tense excitement of touching another soul with such understanding. What the rest of their conversation was, Mariette would not later be able to say, only that it had not been at all awkward. It had not rested on the sole factor that they knew they had in common; Dr Hannibal Lecter, and it had not been quite so mundane as the weather.  
  
After wards, Starling walked Mariette back to her home and bid her good night and good fortune, whatever the future weeks might bring her. At the time, the comment was harmless and a bit silly to Mariette, but as the story of “Buffalo Bill” stormed across the country, even in the midst of her first serious public performances, the significance could not escape Mariette.   
  
Over the years there had been a number of serial killers who had inspired one person or another to approach her father. Each had been faced with either silence or humiliation. Very few had braved the next onslaught to return for more information. Even William Graham, when he had conferred with her father, had not been able to last longer than a few minutes at a turn, and even then it was only due to their past… friendship. Yet, here was another case, and here was another interested party and, strangely, the woman returned. Not only returned, but had done so willingly, late at night and still soaking wet from her outing - what degradation she must have suffered then, was anyone’s guess - but she would return again, and again.  
  
After her final performance, Mariette left the theatre as swiftly as possible, wanting to spend the evening with her father and not with the snobs and press that swarmed through the crowd, begging once more for her attention. Her guardians were still at the hospital after Popil’s latest session of chemotherapy, so she caught a bus to the Forensic Hospital, her violin case still hanging over one shoulder.   
  
She span into Dr Chilton’s office, all pleasant smiles and laughter and lies. Mariette hated how his eyes followed her, how he would give her free reign of the facilities, so long as she continued to smile prettily at him. She hated it, but she would continue to smile - from afar. If it meant unlimited access to her father, then she could put with his lecherous gaze. He was only _watching_ , after all, and she was the consummate actress.  
  
“I have good news for you, Marie,” he said, rolling the nickname in his mouth.  
  
Mariette hated that, too. The use of her christian names were the only ones she was allowed to decide for herself, and she wanted them whole.  
  
“But I’m afraid it means goodbye.”  
  
Her heart froze in her chest, surely he didn’t mean to deny her visitation rights?  
  
Dr Chilton watched with something akin to disappointment as her smile fell and she slumped. When she became human, she realised. “Now, now, my dear, you misinterpret me. Your father is being moved from my care to Brushy Mountain State Prison, Tennessee. You’ve heard, I’m certain, about Buffalo Bill’s kidnapping of Senator Martin’s daughter?”  
  
Mariette nodded dumbly, wondering silently what this change would mean. It did not take much imagination to see her father breaking loose. It had taken no inconsiderable effort to keep him in custody during his initial trial, and since then there had always been at the very least three locked doors and two security guards between him and the outside world. And, for the majority of his time at the Hospital, there had been Barney. Barney was not particularly clever, but he had a simple wisdom that led him to be incredibly good at his good - to simply keep his eyes, and mind, open.  
  
“Dr Lecter has made a deal. The real name of Buffalo Bill in return for the transfer.”  
  
Mariette almost laughed - her father know the name of Buffalo Bill? How absurd! He had been locked in prison for almost decade. If by some slim chance the perpetrator of the kidnap-killings was an acquaintance of old, it was a matter almost of professional pride that one killer not give up the name of another. And while she knew Dr Lecter held himself above the majority of serial killers - being of ‘sound mind’ but abnormal inclinations - there was no way that he’d agree to give some distraught senator that kind of information simply for better accommodation.   
  
“He will be moved tomorrow at 8am,” Dr Chilton continued, regardless of the diverted attention of his audience. “I have requested on your behalf that you be allowed to accompany him. So long as you do not come within two feet of him, do not attempt to pass him anything and do not interfere with any interaction between himself and Senator Martin, then you have permission to travel with him.”  
  
“I - thank you, Doctor. I shall be here by 7.30 tomorrow. May I see my father now, please?”  
  
“Certainly,” he replied shortly, again appearing to be disappointed in her reactions.  
  
Ignoring this, Mariette walked away quickly, hurrying down to the orderlies’ office. Nodding to Barney in gratitude as he took her violin case and coat and opened the door, she half ran down the hall, coming to a sudden stop outside her father’s cell.  
  
“Papa?” she asked, still staring straight ahead and not looking at him.  
  
“ _Oui, ma belle_?”  
  
“ _Je t’aime_ ,” Mariette murmured softly. “I love you,” she repeated in English. “ _Je sais tu_.”  
  
“ _Oui_ , you are the only one who does.”  
  
Mariette turned to look directly at him, their similar eyes meeting and knowing. “I know you.” she repeated.  
  
“Yes,” he answered, and they both knew that his answer was not only acknowledgement of what she had said.   
  
“Alright,” she responded. “I am coming with you.”  
  
For a split second it looked as though he were about to deny her, but their gaze was still caught within each others and he could not tell her no. “I fear I shall be abominably rude,” he said instead.  
  
“Be rude in German,” Mariette responded readily. “You speak it well enough and I know only the basics. Then you can be as rude as you like and all I shall know is that you sound like a pig.”  
  
“Now who’s being rude?” Dr Lecter replied, the corners of his mouth curling up.   
  
Mariette smiled at him indulgently. “You are my father and I am a teenager. It’s my prerogative to be rude to you.”  
  
“So long as you never fear me and always love me, then you can be as rude as you like, _ma belle_.” It was a warning, of sorts, to be clear headed when travelling with him. Mariette knew now that he fully intended to escape - somehow or another - and that escape was likely to be gruesome and dangerous. She had borne his attack on Mme Babineaux’ fingers, but they had only been fingers.  
  
“Love, always,” Mariette told him firmly, her farewell promise adapting to sooth his worries. “But I must leave early. There are arrangements to make and it is getting late. I will return in the morning.”  
  
“All my love,” he murmured after her, quiet among the screaming of the other inmates, but loud enough and familiar enough for her to pick out of any din.   
  
As Mariette picked up her coat and violin case, she smiled to herself. She wondered how her life might change if Dr Lecter was free. There would be no more prison visits, no more locks and keys and fingers through holes in plastic. But then - there would be less of him. She would not be able to pop by whenever she wished. She would not be able to flutter her eyelashes at the orderlies to get them to open his cell so that she could hug him tight. Would she see him at all? They would be watching her, after all. They would tap her phone and trace her calls, to try and track him down through her.  
  
Mariette hugged her violin case as the darkened world whizzed past, stumbling slightly as she stepped off the bus, her thoughts elsewhere. Before they started monitoring her telephone, there was a call she had to make. Once at the apartment she put her case and jacket on her bed, then tugged the bed sharply away from the wall until there was a reasonable gap. She pulled carefully at the skirting board until part of it came away, several pieces of paper fluttering to the floor as she did.  
  
Picking up each of the pieces of paper, and making sure she had all six, she then returned her room to how it was originally, no sign of her deed. Mariette took the pieces of paper to the dining table, safe in the knowledge that neither of her guardians would return until some time tomorrow afternoon. She regarded them heavily for a long while, arranging and rearranging them in patterns that meant nothing to anyone but her. Eventually she picked the eldest, most worn one up.  
  
On it, like all the others, was a name and a number. Mariette hesitated a moment longer, before dialling. It rang twice before the phone was picked up. There was no greeting.  
  
“ _Bon jour, mon ami_ ,” Mariette said, louder than normal in an attempt to keep the tremble from her voice. “There is a favour I need to ask you, Jacques.”  
  
-  
  
He really was very rude, Mariette mused, sitting sideways in the armchair in her father’s new cell. Always demanding one thing or another, never giving anyone the time of day. A little respect might have gone a long way. But Dr Lecter offered no one respect until they had dragged it from him with no less effort than it takes to stop a train dead. Mariette took a moment to reflect how grateful she was that her effort had been whilst a baby and the screaming and kicking involved had all been part of her natural development.  
  
“That is not very good for your posture, you know,” Dr Lecter chided gently, not looking up from his sketching. “And I can feel your smirk from over here.”  
  
“Can you blame me, Papa?” Mariette asked, all innocent tones and easy nonchalance. “It does amuse me the way these people scamper about your feet like servants to a king. Do they not realise that all it takes is a threat of having nothing to do and you bend to their will with next to no effort on their part?”  
  
“Hush, now, _ma belle_ , do not torment them so! Let them live their little fantasies as they wish.” He glanced up, then, and Mariette’s smirk turned to a true smile. At a moment like this, when he was all warmth and tenderness, she could imagine what her life might have been like.   
  
“Has your dear Starling visited yet?” Mariette asked , returning to her pondering of the dark, high ceiling of the room they were in.  
  
Dr Lecter chuckled. “She is hardly _my_ Starling,” he murmured, “although she had a fair bit to say about you - child-like, am I?”  
  
“Absolutely, Papa! I adored the metaphor of you running as a boy through the woods around your home, and always tripping over the same log. I imagined you asking your father to attack it with an axe and taking great joy in watching it burn.”  
  
“You have an over active imagination,” he told her, half-accusingly, half-laughing. “And she has visited, yes. I believe we may have been instrumental in silencing the demons that hound her. Unfortunately, she was forcibly removed by the guards before I could get to the last of them. I may have awakened another in my haste.”  
  
Mariette sat up sharply and faced him, her eyes bright and knowing. “You-” then she stopped herself and laughed. She shook her head and her golden curls bounced about her shoulders, as delighted as she. “Dear me, Papa, the first pretty face that was not your daughter’s and you simper and smirk and tempt the good to evil. Tell me, did it work?”  
  
“I have no idea what you’re talking about. We conversed on coveting things, on slaughtered lambs and anagrams.”  
  
The thirteen year old turned to face sideways in the chair once more, swinging her legs over one arm and leaning her head back to rest on the other. She laughed lightly at her father’s antics and thought perhaps she should call on Starling again sometime soon. The poor woman must be most confused by her father’s seductions and allusions.   
  
It had been two days since Dr Chilton had announced her father’s transferral and everything had gone surprisingly smoothly. Dr Lecter had been terribly rude to everyone, with the exception of Barney, whom he had given a most heartfelt farewell to, and had settled all too easily into the pampered lifestyle he now had. Mariette knew that it was a façade of relaxation to get the guards as comfortable as he - but twice as irritated by his attitude.  
  
Mariette had organised things with Jacques remarkably quickly and by the time she had arrived at her hotel, the package she had asked of him had already been waiting at the front desk. She had not seen him again yet, but he remarked that as soon as what she had requested was used for the first time, he would appear much like before to offer advice. Then all that had remained was booking a hotel room for a week and asking permission of her guardians.   
  
Popil was worse than ever, and Lady Murasaki was fading just as quickly by his side. It was heartbreaking to seem them as pale imitations of the vibrant people they once were, and they recognised that pain in her. They had given their blessing, along with several precautionaries, and then let her do as she will. They loved her as parents would, but they had always known that they would come second after Dr Lecter.  
  
Mariette was drawn back from her musings by the clang of the guards bringing the second dinner Dr Lecter had ordered. She rolled her eyes again, laughingly, returning her gaze to the ceiling. She did not see her father regurgitate the key and slide it between his fingers to unlock his handcuffs. She did not see the first guard getting handcuffed in Dr Lecter’s place, or the first blow as it landed on the second guard’s head. She did feel the slight spray of blood across her cheek. She did hear the first, quickly muted, shouts. The she sat up, turned and watched as the rest of the bloody scene played out.  
  
When her father finally looked up at her, they were both covered with arterial spray, both blinking in wonder at what he had done. He opened his mouth to apologise, but then saw that there was no fear, no horror. He shut his mouth again, but continued to look a bit sheepish.  
  
“You ruined a perfectly good dress,” Mariette said finally. “And unless your plan was simply to double your security, you’ll ruin your escape too if you don’t get a move on.”  
  
“I will buy you twenty new ones,” he promised. “If you’ll now excuse my tying you up.”  
  
Mariette nodded stiffly. She could accept him, forgive him, love him, but she had never seen anyone killed before and the shock held her motionless. “If I know you - and I do - you have some theatrical and entirely unnecessary design up your sleeve too. So please hurry up about it. Since you’ve made your move, I do wish you’d play it to the end and stop asking my damn permission.”  
  
Dr Lecter took her wrists gently, lifting her when her limbs refused to move, and placing her near the bars so he could utilise the handcuffs again. “You should watch your language,” he murmured into her hair. He ran his fingers through it for a moment, sad that her perfection was marred by the blood of the guards.   
  
Then he took up a knife and advanced towards one of the guards. Mariette turned her face away and leant into the cold of the bars. She felt something hot drip onto one of her cheeks, then down into her lap, and wondered if she was too numb to realise she was crying. She blinked hard, but it had no effect. It was the blood in her hair that rolled like tears down her face. When this knowledge sunk in, Mariette woke as if rising through a haze.  
  
She looked up in time to see her father raising a gun. “Wait!” She cried out. “Papa, one moment. There is something I must give you.”  
  
“If this is the moment you betray me, I will be most disappointed, _ma belle_.” He was joking, but only just. There was true fear and reproach in his eyes and Mariette poured the most warmth she could into her returning gaze.  
  
“Not betrayal. A telephone number. A… friend gave me a secure mobile phone.”  
  
“A friend?” Dr Lecter asked sceptically.  
  
Mariette smiled and twisted in place so he could reach her cardigan pocket. “Jacques,” she said. “Mother’s artiste de suicide. He asked my permission to kill her. Although I think I gained more from that transaction than he, it put him in my debt. The phone is payment.”  
  
Dr Lecter withdrew the scribbled telephone number from her pocket. “It’s definitely secure?”  
  
“Yes,” Mariette replied. “And now your performance may continue, forgive the interruption.”  
  
He kissed her lightly on the cheek, buried the scrap of paper in the folds of the uniform he was now wearing before firing the shots.   
  
“All my love, _ma belle_ ,” he murmured, before assuming his role.  
  
“ _Non_ , Papa. Just most of it,” Mariette replied, eyes glinting. Then; “I love you too.”


	5. The Time in Hiding

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: This is the chapter with rape in it. Arguably underage as well, depending where you're from. She's 18. Also minor character death.

Mariette wondered if she could change her bloodied dress sometime soon, or if they were going to make her go through the entire questioning process dripping red tears. There had been surveillance in Dr Lecter’s new prison, but it had not had any audio transmission. All they knew was that she had done nothing to stop it. They had seen her freeze in fear. They had watched as she had quite calmly pulled off the performance of her life time.  
  
By the time anyone had reached the room in which Dr Lecter had been held, Mariette was screaming, crying and hyperventilating. They had been able to get nothing out of her with the exception of refusing to go in the same ambulance as the injured guard. At the time they had perceived it to be because she had watched as Dr Lecter had mauled him. Within moments they knew it was for a separate reason entirely. Thus, the questioning now.  
  
For twenty long minutes Mariette continued to scream and thrash away from human contact until eventually she felt the message had sunk in - and she had grown bored of that game - and she settled down into hiccoughing sobs. They had given her a blanket, asked the medics at the scene to check she was unharmed, then settled her into a chair in confinement. If it weren’t for the entirely too auspicious mirror on one wall, Mariette might have let her guard down a little. As it was, she knew her act to be far from over.  
  
It didn’t stop her from sincerely wishing to change her clothes.  
  
Eventually a scowling young woman entered, her hair drawn back into a tight bun and her make up giving her appearance an even more pointy look than she must have had naturally. Mariette considered that the woman must be in the wrong job, if she was this irritated about interviewing one, harmless, teenage girl.  
  
“Miss _Lecter_ ,” the stranger started, “I am Olivia Philips. I need to ask you a few questions.” The acid in her tone might have melted solid rock.  
  
“May I…” Mariette stopped, bowing her head and fumbling with her fingers. Then she looked up again. “ _Please_ can I change out of these clothes?”  
  
“As soon as you answer my questions,” Ms Philips said, glaring at Mariette.  
  
The girl let out a sob, and raised her hands to her face - this was no hardship to do. Mariette had long since learnt how to keep her emotions at bay, to keep her composure. But it had been a long, tiring day that had been wrought with emotions. It took one brief moment of weakness and everything - years of control - came crashing down and it was all Mariette could do to stay on her chair.  
  
After a while she quieted enough to glare up at the unmoved woman sat opposite her. “I saw my _father_ tear apart two human beings before my eyes. I saw him ruin their families’ lives. I’m sat here, drenched in their blood…” Mariette sobbed once more, uncontrollably, before straightening her back and turning icy. “I wonder what you would have done, in that situation. Your dear, sweet Papa, who encourages your pursuits and sketches beautiful things for you. The hero in your life, who protects, loves and cares for you. How would you react if he butchered two men in front of you?”  
  
“You have always known what your father is,” the tight-faced lady replied, refusing to give Mariette any leeway. “Why did you not warn the ambulance crew that it was your father, not the guard they were transporting?”  
  
“I tried. I was having a little difficulty breathing at the time,” Mariette replied icily. She opened her mouth to speak again, when Starling barrelled in to the room, face flushed with rage.  
  
“What the hell do you think your doing?” she demanded to know from Philips. “This girl is under age and cannot be questioned without a guardian or social service personnel present. Why have you not taken her clothes? They needed to be bagged and taken in for evidence. And God help me, if she hasn’t had at the very least a basic health evaluation I will find a way to ruin your career.”  
  
Philips quailed under the FBI’s fury and left as rapidly as she could, squeaking something about getting evidence bags.  
  
“Ms Starling,” Mariette said, bowing her head in greeting. “I thought you had your own case to resolve?”  
  
Starling smiled a little half-heartedly. “Finished it yesterday. With Dr Lecter’s help - by which I mean, once I’d solved his riddles and ignored his misdirection - we nailed the bastard yesterday evening.”  
  
“The senator’s daughter?”  
  
“Will probably need counselling for a long time to come, but is physically fine, if a bit slimmer than before.” Starling’s gaze softened and she put one of her hands on the table, turning it palm up when Mariette reached for it. “What about you? How are you?”  
  
“I don’t know,” Mariette whispered. “I don’t know.” Her eyes prickled and another tear ran down her cheek. “Is it stupid that I miss him? Not the monster that he was in those moments, but my Papa, who’s supported me all my life.”  
  
“Not stupid,” Starling murmured. “Not stupid at all.”  
  
The two women gripped each other’s hand tightly, the only contact they allowed themselves - or needed. A link, however fragile and insubstantial, to another human being. Another thinking, breathing being that cared for the same man, no matter how different that caring was. They only let go when Mariette had to change out of her bloodied clothes, even then reaching for each other once she was done.  
  
“There is one question,” Ms Philips dared to say before they left. “What did you give him? Just before he chained you up. What was it?”  
  
Mariette let out a soft sigh. “A few lines. He’s always drawing such amazing images, I thought I might try and give something in return. I knew he was leaving. I had to know that he was still… human. I think that was scariest - seeing Papa in a monster’s body.” Worried, was what she didn’t say. It was strange to see her ineffable father worried about something, but he had been anxious to know that she still loved him. It was scary to see such frailty from him.  
  
“I have never been an artist,” she continued, “but I am quite good at music. I had written a few lines of music as a reward for helping the police. When he was escaping I gave it to him in an attempt to remind him of who he was without the killing. Maybe I’m hoping he will turn himself in. I don’t know.”  
  
Philips nodded and left, Starling remaining as the only other person in the room with Mariette. “He’s not going to hand himself in,” the elder said to the younger.  
  
“I know,” Mariette said. “I’m so confused what I want. I want my Papa to be free, but I want that… _monster_ , to be locked away forever more. I’ve seen him scare and imitate before. I was there when he bit off mother’s fingers, but even then he was not the monster I saw today.”  
  
“Do you think, then, that he has split personalities?” Starling queried.  
  
Mariette tilted her head back and closed her eyes, thinking. “No,” she murmured eventually. “I think that, had he not had the familial support of _Taunt_ Murasaki as an adolescent he may well have been, but as it is… the monster loves as the man does, the man hates as the monster does. Their wishes and hopes are so closely entwined it would be impossible to separate one from the other.”  
  
“And they both love you,” Starling added softly.  
  
Mariette looked up at her through long golden eyelashes and smiled a little. “Yes,” she answered, “yes they do. He does.”  
  
They both stood and Starling began to lead Mariette from the room and guiding her out of the building. “What will you do now?” she asked.  
  
Mariette didn’t answer for a step or two, then said, “I’m going to travel, I think. My _Oncle_ is dying and my _Taunt_ is fading with him. There may be some estranged relatives on my mother’s side, but - well, I never did much like her. I’ve been given an offer to do a tour of Europe with the State Orchestra, and they take responsibility of their underage members with consent from a guardian. _Taunt_ wants me not to have to watch their decay as much as I don’t want to watch it, so she’ll be pleased by the distraction. And if I happen to sign up to join an Italian Orchestra? Such is life.”  
  
“You’re a bit young to be considering all this aren’t you?”  
  
“Maybe. But music is my passion and the travelling will benefit me greatly, I should think. I adore learning new languages, but it’s the history, the culture behind them that makes them so intriguing.”  
  
Starling nodded and held the front door open for her. The  thirteen year old stepped out and blinked at the slow sunrise flushing the normally dull grey parking lot in brooding reds and pinks. “Do you need a lift to your hotel?” Starling asked.  
  
“ _Non_ , thank you. I… I think I’ll take a walk. Go to the park. Buy some greasy fast food. Forget that last night ever happened for a while.”  
  
The older of the pair nodded understandingly. “Mariette. If you ever need anything, anything at all… just let me know. I know that we don’t really know each other, but-”  
  
And she was interrupted, to her astonishment, by a light giggle from Mariette. “Oh, how splendid! You have a little crush, I think, on my Papa?”  
  
Starling flushed hotly but did not bother trying to deny it.  
  
Mariette, on the spur of the moment, reached up and gave Starling a tight hug. “Oh, in another world, _ma amie_ , you would have made a most charming step-mother. I will call you if there is anything I wish to talk about, although I feel that I must warn you - with Papa on the run and my only other relatives fading-”  
  
In her turn Starling interrupted Mariette, “ _Anything_. You are something special, Mariette, and I would be honoured if you included me in your life.”  
  
“ _Merci_ ,” Mariette thanked, giving her another tight hug before turning to start to leave.  
  
“A warning,” Starling called after her, “I want Dr Lecter incapacitated. Any information you may give me about him…” she trailed off, her message loud and clear.  
  
Mariette smiled slyly in reply, offering a small half-wave and leaving. Now that her father was free - or as free as a man on the run could be - the last thing tying her to Baltimore City was gone. She would enjoy the few remaining days in Knoxville, lose herself in the city and its people before returning to the house she had for a while called home for a couple of weeks and then; the world.  
  
Before she lost sight of the Police station she glanced back one last time and saw again the astonishing woman who’d caught her father’s attention. She was gazing absently at the horizon, the colours of the world now a paler, more delicate orange and Mariette couldn’t help but think that the previous more vibrant shades had suited the young woman better. There was a fierce stubbornness in her that Mariette could not help but admire, however guiltily. She would stay in touch. Starling had caught Lecter’s attention and that was something that never bode well, no matter the capacity of the attention.  
  
She was not the first to call Starling, however. Four days after Mariette’s return to Baltimore and a week after her father’s escape, he phoned her.  
  
“Ma belle! _How are you?_ ”  
  
“Papa,” Mariette answered in a scolding tone. “I think, more importantly, you should tell me how you are doing.”  
  
“ _I am your father, Mariette, and you must know that it is your health that always comes first to me. I am well, though. I little tired, as you might imagine, but I’ve had a rather wonderful supper and an interesting chat with a mutual friend. I couldn’t resist the temptation of talking to you any longer._ ”  
  
“I had heard that Dr Chilton had made a rather hasty departure to lands unknown, I don’t suppose you’ve heard from him?”  
  
“ _Heard from him? Why whatever could you mean?_ ”  
  
“Don’t play coy, Papa, you know that I know you well enough by now.”  
  
“ _I suppose I might have heard a protest or two. Bit of a mouthful, I’m afraid, not at all pleasant. Though better now than he ever has been before._ ”  
  
Mariette wondered if it made her a bad person to be amused by this. Probably, but the only one who’d ever know was her father and he really wasn’t in any position to cast stones. “And your conversation with a mutual friend?” she prompted.  
  
“ _Ah, yes, the ever intriguing Miss Clarice Starling. She won an award, you know, for her capture of that Buffalo Bill of hers. Although I like to think it was more a reward for translating all my riddles._ ”  
  
“Of course you do,” Mariette agreed, laughing softly down the phone. “I think she may be a little obsessed with you, Papa.”  
  
There was a satisfied, wordless grumble from the other end. “ _And I with her,_ ma belle, _although my obsession is rather more tempered, I suspect. Now tell me how you are doing. I heard something about the prospect of travelling?_ ”  
  
Mariette rolled her eyes at her father’s first comment - he, in control of an obsession? That was a self-delusion if ever she heard one. She did not call him on it - not this time. Instead, she told him, in a little more detail than she had Starling, about her plans for the immediate future.  
  
“ _My own little angel, a musical prodigy. I don’t think I have ever been quite so proud of you Mariette._ ”  
  
“I’m proud of you too,” she whispered. “I know you were worried I might react badly, but… you are free Papa. I find I do not care about others so long as I know that you are safe and well.”  
  
There was a long moment of silence and Mariette tensed as it grew, worried that she had, this time, said the wrong thing. But, eventually, he spoke again, “ _You continually astonish me. That such a beautiful being such as yourself would lower itself to love one such as me - to disregard all my faults as you do…_ ”  
  
“ _Je t’aime_ , Papa. I love you. I always have, I always will. You are my father and nothing that ever happens will change that.”  
  
“ _Oh,_ ma belle, _I love you too._ ”  
  
Mariette curled herself onto the sofa, settling in for a longer talk, a self-satisfied air ensconcing her as she smiled to herself. It had not escaped her notice that his usual declaration of ‘all my love’ had not been used. She did not say this, however, settling instead for, “I know.”  
  
-  
  
The next six years passed in a whirlwind of culture and music. Once she left, Mariette looked back only once to her old home when Popil died followed shortly by Lady Murasaki. She returned just long enough to retrieve any family treasures from the old apartment to archive with the rest of the Lecter and Babineaux  heirlooms and hire a lawyer to sort out the rest of the holdings. There was ample money still in the bank, but hardly a fortune; the real wealth lay in the estates.  
  
There were two large country estates, one  in Lithuania - not the Lecter Castle, that had long since been destroyed - and the other in Italy. There was also a resplendent town house in Paris that had belonged to Murasaki’s previous husband. All three were closed, but Mariette took note of the names and contact details of the housekeepers so as to contact them if she ever needed residence in the areas.  
  
But largely, she put it all out of mind. Her father had amassed a fortune before his arrest and the large majority of it had been transferred to her name, the rest disappearing to an unknown account where Mariette suspected it had waited for her father’s release, gathering interest all the while. And Mariette was earning her own fortune through her talent on the violin. For that, she could be a little thankful for her father’s infamy. It drew interested eyes, and the more interested the eyes, the larger her pay cheque.  
  
She was mature before her years and the other players in the orchestra respected that upon short acquaintance. Their manager was technically responsible for her well being, but once it became clear that she could take just as good - if not superior - care of herself as the more senior members, she was largely treated as an adult. It was a perfect arrangement all around. There was some small amount of difficulty about guardianship when the last of Mariette’s immediate family other than her father died, but with a few quite words in the right ears, complimented by a large bank note or two in the right pockets and Mariette was legally emancipated and officially awarded dual citizenship for America and France.  
  
Then, only a month or so before her nineteenth birthday, Mariette returned briefly to the States to celebrate Seth’s birthday. It would turn out to be one of the worst mistakes she could ever have made.  
  
She and Seth had remained close friends over the years, in spite of the physical distance between them. Once the first haze of overwhelming hormones had settled into the dust they had mutually decided that if there had ever been a chance of something romantic between them, neither was particularly interested in it anymore although their friendship was something that neither wished to forsake. And it was with that understanding that their individual lives had thrived.  
  
While Seth never had been and never would be someone to be described as clever, he did have his own set of skills and by his twenty-first birthday he had already taken control of the motor repair shop that he’d worked at since quitting school at sixteen, and business had never been better. To celebrate this and his birthday, Mariette returned to see him face to face for the first time other than webcam since she had left America behind when her father and her last link to the country had left.  
  
He was taller and stronger than she remembered but he was simultaneously just as he had always been and it had been with much love and laughter that they’d embraced and he’d led her out of the airport.  
  
“God, it’s good to see you again,” he remarked, grinning widely and unable to take his eyes off her. “And ain’t you just the prettiest thing? The video feed doesn’t do you any justice, Mariette.”  
  
“Me? How about you? What happened to the lanky beanstalk of five years ago?”  
  
“Lots of heavy lifting and the realization that girls like a bloke who can carry ‘em if needs be.”  
  
The laughed she rewarded that statement with was just as sweet and bell-like as it had ever been. “And does the need arise?” she teased.  
  
“Plenty,” he replied, lifting her overweighed suitcase into the trunk of his car with little difficulty. “In fact, one girl in particular at the moment. And while you know I’ve always called you beautiful, nothing compares to her for me.”  
  
Mariette’s pleasure was no less warm at hearing this, but it grew softer, a selfless happiness. “Oh, that’s wonderful Seth. I’m happy for you. Will I get to meet her?”  
  
“Two most important women in my life?” he asked brightly. “Like you could escape it. Not ‘til tomorrow though. I want to keep you to myself this evening.”  
  
“It’d be my pleasure,” Mariette agreed. “You’ll have to give me a moment or two at my hotel to freshen up, but after that I’m all yours.”  
  
Seth beamed another cheek-splitting smile and chivalrously held the door of the car open for her before sliding in his own side and starting up the engine. “A friend of mine found a brill Chinese place a couple of weeks ago and, while I’m sure you’ve been to China and the food there is nothing like the American stuff we have here, it’s still got some of the most delicious dishes you’ll ever taste, so I though that’d be good?”  
  
“Sounds wonderful,” Mariette assured. “I’ve not been to China, though. The first Orchestra I was with toured Europe primarily, and the company that I signed with a couple of months ago are a static Italian Orchestra.”  
  
“So you finally got to live in the country of your dreams?” Seth teased. As children Mariette had always expressed her wish to travel to Italy. Thanks to the taste installed in her by her father she had a fine taste for culture and Italy had some of the oldest and most prolific pieces.  
  
Mariette hummed her agreement. “I am incredibly grateful that I managed to tour Europe so thoroughly beforehand, though. There wasn’t a huge amount of free time between performances and practice, so I couldn’t linger as long as I might’ve liked, but I’ve seen so much. Italy is my favourite, but all the countries I’ve visited had so much to offer, if you only knew what to look for!”  
  
“Listen to you, same old Mariette I’ve always known,” Seth remarked fondly, turning off the freeway and towards the quieter part of town where Mariette’s lodgings could be found. Before they could make it to the hotel, however, the driver in front of them swerved sharply across the road, Seth breaking and the driver behind smashing into the back of them. The last Mariette saw before she blacked out were the emerging shadows from the car that’d been in front of them, both holding a weapon of some sort.  
  
When she woke up she was tied to a chair. The room that she was in was relatively large and nondescript, although there was mould in one corner and the paint was peeling in various places indicating that it was not particularly well cared for. There were no windows, by which she could only make the assumption that they were subterranean. It also ruled out the chance of her working out what sort or time it was and for how long she’d been captive.  
  
She sat for any length of time before anything further happened. Whether it was minutes or hours she could not tell as adrenaline and feared rushed through her veins giving a similar but much more cutting feeling to when she performed solo before an audience. This was a darker, wilder fear and there was no confidence in this. Mariette cursed herself for not thinking to ask Jacques or her father for lessons in self defence or escaping bonds.  
  
Eventually, though, her solitude was disturbed as three masked men dragged in a fourth who was bleeding profusely and apparently unable to hold up his own head. It felt like a punch to the gut when she realised it was Seth. Strange how much longer it took to recognise him without his ever-present smile. Or perhaps it was the blood that stained his face and clothing.  
  
“Lecter,” one of the men hissed lowly, venom dripping from his tone. “What’s about to happen is the fault of your blood. You do not deserve to live on God’s Earth.”  
  
Mariette raised her head slowly, letting out a long breath and not meeting anyone’s eyes, instead gazing blankly at the wall. She would not break. “I am not my father,” she told them. “God offers all things forgiveness.”  
  
“Except to those who don’t repent. Do you repent?” the same man spoke again.  
  
“I cannot repent the sins of my father. They are his, not mine.”  
  
That comment earned her a hard slap across the left cheek, the man’s ring cutting line across her cheek bone. She winced but did not turn to look at him.  
  
“Repent!” he screamed at her.  
  
“For what?” she asked, and he hit her again.  
  
This cycle continued a few times more, the slaps becoming punches and kicks until he lost patience.  
  
“I should not have offered a devil such as you forgiveness, you will never be worthy.”  
  
“ _You_ cannot offer forgiveness. Only God can do that,” Mariette corrected quietly. She was not personally religious, but much of the artwork and literature she so admired was and she knew the bible well enough.  
  
This time, though, the man ignored her and turned to talk to Seth instead, who had raised his head, leaning sloppily against the far wall and squinting around two black eyes that had already started to swell. “This is your reward; you shall watch as we the holy beat the devil from her and cleanse her with our spirits. Your punishment shall be death, but we will make it swift and honourable. More than a non-believer like you deserves.”  
  
Seth was gagged and unable to speak, but he spluttered around the binding as best he could, hot tears flowing down his cheeks and carving white marks of clean skin through the blood and dirt on his face. His eyes caught hers and begged for freedom, for safety, for forgiveness. She could give none; she could not free him, nor make him safe, and he had done nothing that needed her forgiveness.  
  
“I love you, brother of my heart,” Mariette told him quietly and did not blame him when he closed his eyes and turned his head away.  
  
The beating itself was not too bad. None of the three men were particularly strong, with the soft weak muscles of men who’s most strenuous exercise of the week was climbing the stairs to bed. But what came after was worse. The words their apparent leader used implied an exorcism of sorts, but pretty words could not hide the fact that it was rape, the basest form of torture and humiliation.  
  
Mariette held tight to her control for as long as she could, although nothing could stop the steady of flow of tears down her cheeks. But when the first of the three thrust into her young, virgin body, she was delicate crystal under too much pressure and she shattered into a thousand sparkling pieces, all beautiful, damaged and broken.  
  
When the last was done with her they left her as she was, naked from waist down and the blouse and bra she had been wearing both ripped to shreds, the fabric hanging off her in a mockery the modesty it had been before.  Her face was dripping with semen, where one had chosen to ejaculate in her face and her breasts were sore from being crushed between hands or against the floor. Both her anus and her vagina were dripping semen and blood and her body ached from slaps and bite marks in too many places to count.  
  
They dressed slowly, taking time to joke between themselves, obviously in no rush to leave. One of them, before tucking himself back in his pants, pissed across her breasts and face spraying her with the hot, acrid liquid. They all laughed when all she did was turn her face towards the floor, her dirty hair doing little to hide it.  
  
Then one, the leader perhaps? Mariette was beyond caring which was which at this point; they were no longer human beings, they were only beasts controlled by the most carnal of urges and using flimsy excuses to justify actions that were beyond any rationalisation. He went across to where Seth was still slumped against the wall, his wrists and ankles bleeding from struggling against the ties to try and get to her, to save her. He pulled a penknife from his pocket and dragged it across Seth’s throat.  
  
It did not work as well as the assailant had obviously intended. His cut was not deep enough to successfully pierce both carotid arteries and the jugular. He apparently did not care, all too happy to break his earlier promise of Seth’s death being quick. He watched for a moment as Seth began to choke on his own blood and shrugged dispassionately, turning to his two friends and the three of them leaving with nary a regret or second guess.  
  
“Love you,” Mariette choked out once they were gone. “So sorry. So sorry.”  
  
Seth could not move to shake his head, not speak to tell her that it was not her fault, just as it wasn’t his. But for all that he could not speak, his eyes said it all. With them he told her of his happiness that she was his friend, that his life had gone so well up until this point. He told her his grief that the future he had planned with that special girl of his, a couple of kids, the business growing and becoming ever more successful, that it would not happen. Then he told her of his love. Then he closed his eyes and tried to stop breathing.  
  
Mariette turned her head away as her childhood friend, her best friend and her brother in all but blood died.


	6. Hannibal

Mariette would never sing again. Her screaming had done enough damage to her throat that, combined with almost two days without medical care, she would never be able to use it in the same way again. She could still talk normally, but her voice was ever so slightly deeper than before, and although still clear she no longer possessed the bell like quality of before.  
  
She could still play, though. And for this she was eternally grateful. Music had always been something of an escape, but now it went beyond that. With a violin and its bow in her hands she could close her eyes and utterly lose the world around her. She became nothing more than the instrument and the music it produced. If there were anything that might have ‘cleansed her soul’ this was it.  
  
It took her three weeks to speak again. Not because of the damage, but instead because she did not want to hear the differences in her voice, a constant reminder of what she no longer was and the massive hole Seth’s death had left. It was only when her father phoned her that she realised that never talking again was selfish beyond measure, that not living would only dishonour Seth’s memory.  
  
“Ma belle,” Dr Lecter had whispered down the phone, and he sounded as broken as she felt. Mariette was glad he could not see her. “ _If there were ever words to apologise, I swear that I would find them. But I fear that the cruelty done to you for my sake is beyond anything I could offer as payment._ ”  
  
“You owe me nothing, Papa,” she told him, screwing her eyes tight shut in a vain attempt to keep the tears falling. “Perhaps it was an excuse they gave, but it was not truth. They were just beasts looking for an excuse to defile me and kill Seth.”  
  
He, wisely, said nothing about her croaking voice. If he knew about her voluntary silence, he breathed nothing about it. “ _You are amazing. Whatever did I do to deserve a daughter like you?_ ”  
  
Mariette did not reply, merely wept down the phone and curled in on herself, grasping her knees with one arm and the phone with the other.  
  
“ _Oh my darling girl, you are so strong and so beautiful. If I were there I would kiss away your tears before they fell. I would protect you from the world if I could._ ”  
  
“I know,” she murmured between sobs. “I love you Papie.”  
  
“ _I love you too, more than one body should be capable of containing. And I promise you,_ ma belle _, that the men who did this to you are as good as dead._ ”  
  
“I -” Mariette hesitated. She knew that she ought to tell her father ‘no’. She should tell him not to kill them, not to torture them, not to hunt them down. But she was not so good as to want to say that. Everything in her screamed ‘do it!’ and she would not, this time, resist the temptation. “Thank you...Yes, thank you.”  
  
There was an audible pause on the other end of the line, then the slow dangerous chuckle that Mariette associated to the promise of blood and pain. It should have scared her, but instead it was like a blanket of warmth and security settling around her shoulders. “ _You are too good. Do you think there are even a hundred people in the world who would have hesitated at an offer like that?_ ”  
  
“I think killing the innocent is wrong, Papa. And for a moment, I thought of them as your victims, as human beings. But they are not any of that. Anything that you do to them is what they asked for when they attacked me. They knew who I was, they called me by my name. And I will not pretend that I am not grateful for every moment of suffering they go through.”  
  
“ _A glimmer, perhaps, that you are my daughter, and not some changeling child left on my doorstep._ ”  
  
“There has always been more than a glimmer, I’ve just never said as much before.”  
  
“ _And what do you plan to do while I hunt down the mongrels?_ ”  
  
Mariette considered for a long moment, relaxing her tensed posture for the first time and melting into the hospital bed. “I will go to Taunte’s town house, I think,” she murmured. “Spend a year in Paris ‘discovering myself’ - that’s what I believe is in vogue. I have connections in France who will help me, I think.”  
  
“ _Don’t go asking for stupid favours, now,_ ” Dr Lecter chided.  
  
“Asking? No, they offer them to me, common as raindrops. And in return I’ll make sure my infamous father doesn’t get his teeth stuck in.”  
  
“ _Using me for your own gain, I couldn’t be prouder_ ,” he declared softly.  
  
Mariette made a small noise of amusement - the closest she could bear to get to a laugh - and told him, “Because of the incident with mother, they know that I won’t tattle on them. And they know I have connections. If someone wants something stolen or someone killed - well it’s not a crime, surely, to make a joke about a ‘bloke I once met’? More of a crime, perhaps, to share phone numbers, but it’s nothing traceable back to me and I can’t be held accountable for the decisions and lifestyle choices of others.”  
  
“Ma belle, _you are too wondrous to behold_ ,” he complimented, chuckling.  
  
“ _Merci_ ,” she replied and allowed the smallest of blushes to grace her cheeks. There was nothing quite like talking to one’s morally ambiguous father to brighten one’s day. By the time they finished their conversation Mariette realised that in its duration she had thought of the incident but a fraction of the time rather than the entirety of it. And it was with the knowledge that she could live without thinking about it that she found herself capable of moving on and ready to turn the new leaf that Paris presented.  
  
The house that Mariette had inherited from her Aunt was rather more than she expected it to be. She had been used to Lady Murasaki’s minimalist preferences in regards to decoration so to find a house that rivalled Mariette’s late mother’s in opulence was startling. It was not an overwhelming nouveau-riche display of wealth, but rather a style that demonstrated fortune without flaunting it. Mariette was immediately fond of it.  
  
It was too large a dwelling for just herself and Mariette found herself hiring both butler and housekeeper to help populate it a little. It was still too quiet for her tastes, but the first month there was too soon for her to face the real world with all its beautiful, ugly people, and so she tried to fill the spaces with the sound of her violin. The solitude was good; it gave her time to recover, but it made her lonely and push once more for company.  
  
And so it was that a mere eight weeks after the incident, Mariette found herself dressing up to face the outside world again. Whilst she was technically above the usual age of a coming out, her mother had been very well known by high French society and Mariette even more so due to status as bastard child and daughter to the infamous Hannibal Lecter. So it was natural that, as she wished to properly enter French society for the first time, the date of her first appearance spread rapidly and the party that she was choosing to attend became more about her than the obscure date it had originally been held in honour of.  
  
Mariette was a little unsteady on her feet to begin with, but she was more than used to being the centre of attention and soon found herself to be in her element. The press of people around her was something that - in abstract - Mariette had thought to be terrifying, but to actually be in the centre of the crowd was a strange, heady relief. Here there would be no danger, there would be no chance of spending days sliding in and out of consciousness remembering only pain. Here there was only light and laughter, drinking and dancing.  
  
It was because of this that Mariette spent the next couple of months attending parties and functions and gallery openings and balls almost constantly. There was a dizzying high to be found when conversing with people rich or famous or influential or a combination of all three, especially in the thick French language that spilt insults like honey and could sound most beautiful at its most profane. It was a war made of pleasantries and pretty dresses and Mariette considered it a battle she was less than prepared for, but more than ready to win.  
  
The crowd loved her; Mariette wielded the irresistible charm of her father and the political savvy of her mother with deadly accuracy. It took her just the first night to have legions of admirers and a week for the first marriage proposal. As a further fragment of good fortune the general public soon grew bored of her. As sensational a conversationalist as Mariette might be in person she neither said nor did anything particular radical, and it is only the most extreme of words or actions that can hold the press’ attention for any length of time.  
  
But it also did not take long for Mariette to become restless with this new sport. Whilst her evenings were filled with fancy words and carefully choreographed actions, it was not often that she had something to fill the daylight hours. She had been working from a very young age and this new idleness ate at her, giving her too much time to think and worry and pity herself. As much as she loathed the slothfulness of this time she also loathed that it was making her a whiney, self-pitying shell of the person she had once been.  
  
So she enrolled in a few classes. Nothing too heavy, just modules at the local college on Classics and Ancient History. It was, as it had been the first time, difficult to adjust to learning in French, but she adapted quickly and rediscovered her enjoyment of learning that had been somewhat forgotten in the haze of constant music practice and performances.  
  
Mariette spent almost two years in Paris, learning by day and socialising by night. She did not make friends with any one person in particular, although she had a circle of people whom she was closer to than most others. Of that circle it was a slightly older gentleman by the name of Pierre who introduced her to the pleasures of the flesh.  
  
The rape and her inability to approach the topic even within the confines of her own mind was something that bothered Mariette more and more as time passed. She had hoped that it would fade as most memories do, that she would be able to lock it in some quiet, sanitary dungeon of her mind palace where she might look upon it from time to time so as not to forget, but where it would could be ignored at will.  
  
Instead it festered and smouldered, destroying not only the room she had tried to build for it but also the supports for other rooms, swallowing other precious memories as it began to consume her attention. It was like a cancer on her consciousness and Mariette fought against it the only way she could think of - by replacing the memories with something better, sweeter.  
  
Pierre was not traditionally handsome, but he had a dazzling charisma that meant he never lacked for friends or sexual company. He was, perhaps, the closest Mariette came to having a friend during her stay in France. Every conversation with him was a mental duel of dizzying participation, every word measured, thought through and timed to excellence until anyone but them would get lost in the maze of double meanings and second guessing. He was an elegant, indolent social genius and she would not trust him farther than she could throw him.  
  
Which was why, when he discovered how much her previous experience was crippling her and he offered to help, she said yes. Pierre knew who she was and wasn’t so foolish as to think that she didn’t remain in regular contact with her father. He would not hurt her. But he would more than happily use her. And Mariette did not mind. Because if he could replace the demon in her mind then the price of hanging off his arm in front of the paparazzi was not so great.  
  
It did not work out how either had planned. In fact, it was better. The sex was fantastic, something that Pierre would not have allowed it to be anything less than, and the storm that was dwelling within Mariette was soothed. The memory was not replaced - it could never be totally purged - and when she approached it it would always be raw and angry, but it was placated. It was another colourful segment of her past, where it belonged, no longer something that ate at her present. And in return Mariette’s social calendar was adjusted to be almost constantly at Pierre’s side.  
  
And those months were among the most fun that Mariette ever experienced. Pierre’s scathing wit and ineffable manners made ceremonies that before had been boring more than tolerable. A comrade to face the legions of sycophants with and a regular sex life were both things Mariette acknowledged that, whilst she didn’t need either of them, it was good to have them around.   
  
As fun as spending time with Pierre was, however, there were no tears shed when they parted ways. Pierre was as shallow as he was clever and while he, too, had appreciated a fellow intelligent mind to scorn the idiotic masses with, he appreciated her looks just as much, if not more.   
  
There were several reasons behind Mariette’s choosing to leave, the most prominent of which was a letter from a Dr Fell, newly appointed caretaker of the national library in Florence. While the name was unfamiliar the handwriting was not and that alone would have been enough for Mariette to pack her bags and leave immediately. But in an occurrence that she was convinced was not at all coincidence, one of Italy’s most prominent orchestras was in  need of another violin. That the orchestra was based in Florence and had even considered Mariette as an option when she had not publicly played for two years further led to her theory that her father had played a significant role.  
  
One of the country estates that Mariette had inherited was about forty minutes drive from the centre of Florence if the traffic laws were followed. Since they never were, a further ten minutes could be shaved off that journey and Mariette took great joy once she arrived at her new home, browsing the local car dealerships for an expensive, ostentatious convertible with which she could break those traffic laws. It was flashy and perhaps more of an indulgence than she should allow herself, but if everyone was looking at her they wouldn’t be looking at ‘Dr Fell’.  
  
It took two weeks of living in Italy, of rehearsing and performing and seeing Dr Lecter at the back of the overfilled auditoriums before contact was established. Her father was accompanied to the open air theatre by a handsome man perhaps half a decade older than Mariette who held himself with the careful poise of one who knew himself intellectually superior but socially inferior to those around them. He was most probably an historian, if he knew ‘Dr Fell’.  
  
Mariette kept her musing about the stranger who was with her father to a minimum, knowing that she would either get an introduction or not. So she allowed her attention to range over the rest of the audience. There were few faces that she could pick out, yet, although she was already starting to recognise the regular orchestra buffs. The only other person she could positively identify was the Chief Inspector Pazzi who was there with a scandalously young woman whom Mariette assumed was his wife.   
  
Pazzi had forced himself into her life when she first moved into her villa and began to perform again. She had sorted out all of her papers, so there was no official legal reason for him to visit, but as the daughter of one of America’s most wanted Mariette had always received more than her fair share of attention and this had been such a case. Although Pazzi was not a name Mariette was familiar with and she prided herself with being knowledgeable about both her father’s past and those in law enforcement most interested in him, there was a gleam of obsession in the man’s eye when he had questioned her.  
  
Carefully chosen words, cool disinterest and nonchalant superiority persuaded the Inspector to leave sooner than he might’ve preferred. Mariette knew that her behaviour meant that she had forged another enemy, but his boundless rudeness for barging into her new home as he had made her wonder how he had ever managed to reach any kind of position of power. Perhaps she had grown too used to the elegant insults of the French elite.  
  
Pazzi showed no interest at all in her performance, his attention on the rest of the audience more often than not. His wife, however, was a pleasure to play for. The young woman looked to be about twenty, maybe twenty five - a good couple of decades younger than her husband - and she took real pleasure in the opera. There were some people who never lost their childlike wonder when it came to certain aspects of the world, and for her it was music. Eyes wide and body stunned like a deer caught in headlights, like the musicians of Mariette’s childhood the performers became Gods to the right audience.  
  
There was a rapture to performing to an audience that was impossible to describe with words; a sweet, heady addiction that had run Mariette’s life from the first tentative notes hit at her very first school show. She had not recognised it, but she had missed it this past year. The performance of a socialite had been a different flavour of power to it, one that was just as addictive, but was not Mariette’s drug of choice.   
  
The performance was over all too soon and Mariette found herself caught for a momentary infinity between the ringing of the last note and the thunderous applause that followed. The stillness between the absolute certainty of the ideal and the perpetual possibilities of reality, and by the Gods was it glorious.   
  
The life roared onwards and Mariette felt like a doll caught in a hurricane, swirling every which way between congratulations and thanks and an adoring look or two. She found herself, before too long, facing her father with his new face of Dr Fell and the handsome stranger accompanying him.  
  
“ _Ma belle_ ,” he breathed in greeting, the awe in his tone making Mariette shiver in pride. “You never cease to amaze me.”  
  
Mariette stepped into his embrace, whispering “Papa,” under her breath into the shell of his ear so that not even his friend, who was watching so closely, might hear.  
  
The embrace was over too soon for Mariette’s preference, but they were in public and did not wish anyone to make the leap of logic that Dr Fell might be her infamous relation. But it was the most contact either had had with the other since his escape from prison eight years before and it was a blessing to them both to hold the other in their arms, however briefly.  
  
“Excuse me,” Dr Fell said, “Mariette, this is an… associate of mine, Dr Baldassare Calogero. Dr Calogero, may I present Miss Mariette Lecter.”  
  
Dr Calogero took Mariette’s hand, bowing low over it and bestowing a kiss just above the knuckles. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Miss Lecter.”  
  
Mariette watched his gesture with the delicious heat of attraction slowly unfurling in her belly. “Mariette, please,” she offered. “I’m sure the pleasure will be all mine.” The corners of her mouth curled up in a sly smile and she wondered if this was why her father had introduced them.  
  
“Then I must insist on Baldassare,” he replied smoothly, deep voice caressing the words like each was a precious gift.   
  
Dr Fell watched the interaction with no small amount of self-satisfaction. Perhaps it took a fool to be a matchmaker, but if so he would gladly be a fool for Mariette’s sake. “Dr Calogero is a plastic surgeon,” he informed his daughter. “He owns quite a high-end business that caters to a very select group of clientele.”  
  
“Is that so?” Mariette asked rhetorically, the speculation in her eyes changing from admiring to assessing before returning once more. “Then perhaps I ought to offer congratulations on a job well done?” she asked lightly.  
  
Baldassare smiled warmly. “Whilst appreciation of my work is always welcome, it is unnecessary. Myself and my customers alike prefer if the changes made go unnoticed by the masses,” he thanked slyly.  
  
Mariette returned his smile, leaning a little into his personal space. “You need not worry, I think that the masses will be kept in the dark this time. But it is nice, is it not, to rejoice in a shared secret?”  
  
Dr Fell interrupted their conversation before either could forget that he was there and flirt more than they might be comfortable with when looking back at the occurrence. “I think my introductions here are done,” he told them, looking remarkably pleased with himself and inspiring a blush from the young man and a mischievous smile from his daughter. “There are others here tonight whom I wish to greet, perhaps we could arrange for a more informal meeting sometime soon, my dear?”  
  
Mariette nodded in agreement. “You know, I suppose, how to get to the villa where I’m living?” she asked.  
  
“But of course,” Dr Fell replied, a protective gleam flaring in his eyes and tone momentarily before he could dampen it. “If you will excuse me, I bid the both of you a good evening.” The last was said with a slight bite and Mariette restrained the giggle that threatened. Whether her father had set her up with a handsome young doctor or not it was obvious that he hoped that they would not have _too_ good a night. To some he was a monster, but his relation to her was just as it always had been – _father_ – and everything that entailed.  
  
Once the older man had left them to themselves, Baldassare stepped a little further into Mariette’s space, voice deepening as he lowered it so that only she would hear the words, “Did your father just set us up?”  
  
The laughter Mariette had been withholding bubbled forward and she tilted her head back so she might truly enjoy it. “He has always been protective of me, and I know he blames himself for the… incident, of two years ago,” she paused and glanced into his face to see whether Baldassare understood to what she was referring when it became clear that he did, she continued, “If you like you may think of yourself as payment; the settlement for the debt my father thinks he owes me.”  
  
It was his turn to laugh this time, a rumbling chuckle that Mariette determined she would hear again and frequently. “Payment? How does he know that I can offer anything?”  
  
“He’d no doubt be disappointed if you could offer…” Mariette paused and glanced up at him through her eyelashes, “nothing,” she finished the sentence with a wicked grin. “But I must assume that he chose you based on intellectual and aesthetic value, not for how well you might perform in _other_ areas.”  
  
“I’m afraid I’m entirely at a loss as to whether to be insulted or flattered,” Baldassare confessed.  
  
“Further… research may have to be done before I could tell you either way,” Mariette murmured lowly before continuing, a little louder, “I have not yet eaten supper, perhaps you would join me?”  
  
Baldassare hesitated only a moment, his eyes darting to where Dr Fell was talking to Inspector Pazzi. “I’ve heard tales of what your father did to the men of your past,” he replied, not giving a definite negative but expressing his concerns quite plainly.  
  
“Only those that have hurt me,” Mariette assured him. “There have been others - one in particular - who have helped me move past that unfortunate incident. My father has not hurt them.” Now it was her turn to hesitate - there was a deeper pain of hers that they were talking about than she was willing to fully reveal - “He would not have hurt those directly responsible had he not had my express permission to do what he would.”  
  
She turned her face up to the relative stranger standing at her elbow, her eyes having drifted to the floor, unable to look him in the eye. Now she implored him without a word to forgive her for a sin that was not truly hers.  
  
“He loves you,” Baldassare stated simply. “He would do anything in the world to protect you.”  
  
“Yes,” she replied.  
  
Then, Baldassare smiled at her and offered his arm to her, that she took willingly. “Well, _mi amore_ , now is time for us to find some food for that poor empty stomach of yours.”  
  
When they left, perhaps Dr Fell’s eyes were more narrowed than they ought. And perhaps he regretted, just a little, introducing them. But perhaps, also, his heart swelled to see his daughter so happy again.  
  
\--  
  
Mariette only got the chance to see her father once more before Pazzi left the Palazzo della Signoria from the balcony, entrails first and her father fled the city. He arrived at her villa in the late afternoon, a couple of days following the Opera. He looked very different from the man she had known but his spirit was just the same as it had ever been - vibrant and vicious and infinitely loving of her - his freedom had done him good.   
  
One of the most prominent memories Mariette had of her father in prison was the colour grey. Dull lighting and frankly dire décor coupled with a decade away from sunlight meant that her memories of visiting her father, as she relived them at her leisure, were performed mostly in shades of grey, a splash of red here and there. But free from Forensic Hospital and living a life of idle pleasure had returned a vitality to Dr Lecter that Mariette had not known to miss.   
  
Sitting next to one another on a low couch, glasses of white wine warming slowly in the sun balanced in their hands and the patio doors opened wide to allow whatever breeze there was to flutter teasingly over arms and necks and draperies - it was surreal. This, Mariette recognised through the hum of carefree conversation, was what she had missed out on. The casual, elegant simplicity of meaningless conversation in a safe, familiar environment.   
  
Somewhere, in the foundations of her memory palace - from before she began building even - there was a flicker of a memory. A different couch, this one, a darker place warmed by fire rather than sun. No breeze here, just the brush of exhaled breath across the top of her head as she curled into the soft warmth of her Papie’s side, a book open on their laps and his soft speech disturbing her baby-fine hair. It reminded Mariette of an ache that she had held so long she had almost forgotten it was there.  
  
Watching her father for signs that he would not be agreeable, she took his wine glass and placed it next to hers on the coffee table. Then she lifted his arm closest to her and curled underneath it, leaning her head against his chest and clinging to him.  
  
“Oh, _ma belle_ , how I have missed you,” Dr Lecter murmured into the top of her head, pressing kisses there. He hugged her close to his side and she melted against him, hiding her face from his because she knew that if she did not she would weep for the lost years of closeness that had been deprived of them.  
  
They talked in soft voices of lost years, of hopes and dreams that they might dare to touch now, but they did not move from their spot until the sun set and the air grew too cold to keep the French windows open any longer. Mariette slid them shut with a twinge of regret, knowing then that the intimacy of that afternoon, as beloved as it was, would not happen again anytime soon. Trouble followed her father as a shadow, and with Pazzi’s eager little jaws salivating at the reward money, she knew even then that he would not stay in Florence long.  
  
“You should visit Clarice,” Mariette suggested as they started moving slowly towards the door.  
  
“Little Miss Starling? Now why would I want to do that?”  
  
Mariette tilted her head up at her father, the sly smile he had directed at her a few days prior now echoed back and aimed at him. “I know you write to her, Papa. You are not the only one who stayed in contact,” she paused and considered him seriously. “I hear she’s got herself in a spot of trouble at the FBI. Something about a pervert boss whom she refused to sleep with - I don’t know all the details. All hearsay, of course.”  
  
“Hearsay, hmm?” Dr Lecter asked speculatively.  
  
Mariette’s smile grew a little more prideful. “My ‘friends’ don’t pay me, you know, for putting them in contact with people who might help them, but they donate a penny or two now and then. Sometimes I drop a penny in return and they might tell me more than they really should. It’s surprising what a pretty face and a generous donation can do for opening mouths.”  
  
“My daughter, the enterprising business woman,” Dr Lecter chuckled. “Just don’t yourself into any trouble.”  
  
“I’m not in trouble, Papa, I think I’ve done my bit with that. But, like I said, I think perhaps Clarice might need a helping hand. She will survive whatever happens, but were you to play your cards right I think you might just be able to claim her as your own,” Mariette suggested.  
  
“You are a devious girl-child,” Dr Lecter told her fondly.  
  
“I wonder where I get it from,” Mariette replied cheekily. “I love you papa.”  
  
“I love you too, _ma belle_.”


End file.
